


Parallax

by nevillenobottom



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Astronomy, Awkward Sexual Situations, Blowjobs, Domestic, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Harry Potter in the Muggle World, Humor, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Long-haired!Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy in Azkaban, M/M, Mental Illness, POC Harry Potter, Single father draco, Teacher Harry Potter, parental neglect, slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:09:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 107,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24047959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevillenobottom/pseuds/nevillenobottom
Summary: Newly divorced, Draco leaves the behind the dusty cabinets and dead plants of his home in Paris and returns back to Britain with his son to start over in Muggle London. Unfortunately, the past and the present collide when Potter and his adorable son are there to greet them at every angle...."He's sitting in a Muggle PTA meeting with Harry Potter. Potter, armed with his stupid dimples and smooth confidence, is the President of said PTA group. And, worst of all, his son's sodding teacher at his new school."
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/Blaise Zabini, past Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy - Relationship, past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley - Relationship
Comments: 178
Kudos: 841





	1. Scorpius Constellation

**Author's Note:**

> This story will contain very frank discussions of mental illnesses, some based off of my own experiences and some not. 
> 
> Sidenote: Several of the references are inspired by Warsan Shire, an amazing Somalian poet and literally my favorite writer ever. Poems/Quotes referenced: Give Your Daughters Difficult Names, For Women Who Are Difficult to Love, and Intuition.

Today had great potential to be a good day, Draco’s sure of it. The Earth’s tilt is getting in line for the Autumnal Equinox occurring in two months, the Scorpius constellation will be especially luminous tonight, and the Moon is waxing into a gorgeous iridescent crescent; all of this creating the perfect combination for a wonderful twenty-four hours.

Yet it would be even better if Draco could get his ever-increasing anxiety under control. 

“Dad, are you okay?” 

Scorpius looked up at his father, who was glaring at the city around them as if someone might jump out of the shadows and attack them in a moment’s notice. They were two Pureblood wizards deep in Muggle London and Draco was trying his best not to let his past prejudices cloud his judgment. Still, he was in unchartered territory— he can’t help but feel on edge.

He scoffed, puffing up like one of his parents’ offended peacocks at the suggestion. “Scorpius, why _wouldn’t_ I be okay? Don’t you know that the Sun—”

“Yeah, yeah Dad, I know. Equo-nixon, pretty constellation, and half-eaten cookie moon shapes.” Draco rolled his eyes. It was starting to become apparent to him that maybe, just maybe, Scorpius is secretly faking his interest in astronomy for his benefit. “All of that is great and all, but I’m asking if _you_ are alright. Not the stars or space aliens or whatever.”

Draco smolders. He should have never admitted to Scorpius that he believes in aliens.

“I’m fine,” he sniffs airily, “You don’t have to worry about me.” He sounded less convincing, once the brick school building comes into view—large, imposing, and completely different from anything in the wizarding world. His grip on Scorpius’ small hand instinctually tightened despite his internal reminders that Muggle children were not dangerous. If anything, Scorpius probably posed a greater threat to their safety than them to his.

“ _Wicked_ ,” Scorpius breathed, eyes widening in wonder. 

Hoards of Muggle children and their parents walked into the building, each wearing various levels of excitement or dread on their faces. Some children are already in groups, chatting amicably with their friends. Draco gulped. Scorpius didn’t know anyone. Would anyone be willing to let him join in their friend group? What if he didn’t fit in anywhere? Good Merlin, what if he met another version of Draco when he was their age? 

Scorpius and Draco both vibrate; Scorpius in excitement, Draco in fear. 

A bell is rung, and children begin to file into the building, with one particularly excited dark-haired child frantically shoving through the sea of students without care and sprinting into the building. 

“Dad. Dad. _Dad!_ ”

Draco starts, his eyes snapping down to his bouncing son. “What?”

“You can let go now.” 

Oh, right. It was time to let go. 

Scorpius tugged on their connected hands, trying to free himself from Draco’s strong grip. He just can’t seem to find it in him to release him into the unknown.

“Wait, Scorpius!” He drew his son back towards him, outwardly shaking with nerves. Yes, this was his idea and yes, he shouldn’t be nearly as nervous as he was, but for the love of all things magic if he didn’t want to just Disapparate them both back to the empty-walled safety of their new home at this very moment.

“Yes?”

His throat felt like it’s closing up, and he nearly choked on his words. “I—” He swallowed, searching for something, _anything_ to say to his son before he’s gone forever. No, not forever. He could see him again in eight hours. Eight. Long. Hours. Sweet Salazar Slytherin, _why_ did he do this?!

The words come out as an urgent breath. “Don’t let anyone mispronounce your name!”

It was, in Draco’s humble opinion, a perfectly valid and salient reminder. His name requires the full command of the tongue and he should be proud of that. Not everyone has a name as celestial and highly as Scorpius. Some, he shudders, have _adjectives_ as their names.

His son only rolled his eyes, his shoulders sagging slightly in exasperation. He’s heard this a million times, but it won’t hurt to hear it once more. “I won’t Dad. Bye.” With a pointed look, he turned towards the sea of students only for him to still be connected to Draco’s hand. Scorpius tugs again, nearly falling onto the gravel path when Draco still refuses to let go. He still had more to say goddammit and he wasn’t leaving until he got it all out. 

“Your creativity will be at its highest midday!”

Scorpius tugged once more, harder this time, pulling at their locked hands with increased fervor. They must look like quite the pair—a father and the miniature version of himself playing tug of war with their connected hands.

“Don’t befriend people with green eyes!”

Scorpius stopped mid-tug. “Oh, that’s just wrong. Aunt Pansy has green eyes.”

“You’ve inexplicably proven my point.”

Scorpius threw his head back and groaned loudly. “Dad, I’ll be fine. Just. Let. _Go!_ ” His hand is freed from Draco’s iron tight grip at last and he yanks it away before Draco can swiftly grasp it again. He shook his hand out and hissed from the dull ache in his bony wrist. “I’ll see you later.” Then he ran towards the throng of other children before Draco could say another word. 

His unheard goodbye is left on his lips and Draco felt a piece of his heart crack like glass as he watched his son run away from him. 

It’s just eight hours. How bad can it be?

* * *

It turns out, it could be very bad indeed. Despite his previous estimation of his luck for the day, Draco’s day is awful, to say the least.

First, he nearly gets the scare of his life right out of the lift when Jace Jaspers, the bullheaded astrologist, jumps next to him as he steps out to head to the conference room. Draco's made it a point to ignore Jaspers as best as he could every time he had to come into the Ministry, but like a hound, Jaspers' managed to seek him out each and every time. 

"Oi, Draco!" 

Draco clutches his parchment papers closer to his chest and walks faster. If he makes eye contact then he'll be asking to resolve himself for twenty minutes of his babbling about palm readings and horoscopes. 

"Draco! Hey!" He hears panting behind him. Internally cursing his rotten luck, he turns to see Jaspers, hands on his knees, and wearing that same goofy grin on his face. “Whew, you’re a fast one eh? Hate to try and race you.”

He thins his lips. “Is there something you need, Jaspers?” He keeps walking, heading towards the dusty conference room where the presentation proposals are held, wondering if he spins around fast enough if he can hit Jaspers in the eye with his braid. It was one of the nastier advantages of having long hair.

The man has been stuck to him like glue ever since he Draco first came into the department to present. Draco doesn’t quite know why either, except for maybe because they’re the only two researchers who have consistently been rejected each time they propose their research to the board. For most people, their trip to the Astrology and Astronomy department is a quick one, but not for them. 

“You ready for today?” Jaspers asks, his hot, panting breaths puffing out onto his neck. 

“Why I think I am—”

He moves in front of him, swiftly stopping his fast-paced walking. “Want to know your future?” His pudgy hand palms his breast pocket where Draco knows he keeps his tarot cards. “Geminis are predicted to have a good week, maybe you’ll get lucky?” His smile is brighter than his obscenely orange hair and Draco feels his insides churn. It was worse than Weasley’s and that was saying something.

Draco tries to sidestep Jaspers, only to be blocked by him with each movement. The astrologist’s broader body was not helping in his escape. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tries to reason with him, “Jaspers—”

“ _Jace_ ,” Jaspers corrects. “All my friends call me that.”

The insatiable urge to point that Draco was not one of those poor, unfortunate souls, is quelled only with the reminder that he had better things to do than argue with some Hufflepuff kid about how he chose to address him. 

“Fine,” he sighs, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go present.” On quick feet, he manages to side step him and stomps in the direction of his destination.

Of course, his personal shadow is right behind him. For all the times he’s made fun of Potter for dealing with Colin Creevey, it seems that the universe is bestowing him with a Colin of his own. “You always keep your wand in your hair,” he observes with a thoughtful eye stumbling over his feet to keep up with Draco’s long strides, “Do you lose it often? You know I’ve done some research and it turns out Geminis are known for being pretty forgetful. Also, why _do_ you always wear your hair in a braid? When we learned about the war in school I saw pictures of your father and he never wore his in a…”

Draco snarls, whipping around and successfully hitting Jaspers in the face with his hair from the way he was rubbing his round, pink cheek. He looms over Jaspers, his height and piercing glare speaking for itself. The sunlight coming from the large windows beside them was hurting his eyes, but he didn’t care, his unblinking stare earning him a quiet whimper from Jaspers.

The thought that his father’s name, possibly _his_ name is in the books at Hogwarts, makes his nose sting unpleasantly. 

In France, he’s an astronomer. In England, he’s a war criminal. It’s terrifying. Draco never liked being discussed in spaces absent of his presence. 

The kid sounded earnest enough, but he couldn’t give less of a damn. He wasn’t here to discuss his father or make friends, he was here to present his research. 

“Alright, so no talk of your father,” Jaspers says good-naturedly, holding up his hands as if Draco was a predator readying to attack. “Got it.” He follows him when Draco steps into the room. 

The same four witches and wizards are there: Stalls Windsor, Cressida Crass, Reese Parcel, and worst of all, Vera Galatea. Muggleborn, Gryffindor, and with a notable hatred for him, Galatea is certainly not his biggest fan. She has a good reason of course to loathe him, but Draco can’t help but wonder if it’s her who's been voting against him all this time. He needs all of their approval to have his studies accepted and he doubts she’s willing to give any ex-Death Eater a chance in this department. 

They’re just finishing up a previous presentation when Draco and Jaspers enter. Galatea’s mouth twisted in contempt, her blue eyes narrowing at the sight of him sitting down patiently in one of the seats. Draco sits up in the same poised manner his Charm School tutors taught him. He wanted to make a good… fifth impression today.

“Cool earring,” Jaspers whispers in awe, his fingers reaching out to touch Draco’s black dragon earring but snapping away when Draco swats angrily at him. Galatea is less than impressed. 

He’s never going to get that approval if he doesn’t do something about this red-headed Hufflepuff. 

Most of the research that is presented to the board is meant to be put into practice or taught in Hogwarts. And most of his could be if the Ministry wasn’t so reluctant to take the advice of an ex-Death Eater. 

They’ll rather listen to Jaspers, as if his erroneous tarot reading is more reliable than the proven astronomical laws Draco’s discovered from over ten years of research. The only reason why they haven’t granted him approval is because he was unable to answer any of the board’s questions without flat admitting he didn’t know the answer to a question about his _own_ research. 

It’s insulting really. Several wizarding hospitals in France have gratefully accepted his theories as truth and now utilizes them in their Preventive Care Unit. If it weren’t for him, there would be far more unsuspecting witches or wizards that land themselves a day trip to the Healers because they casted a heating or cooling charm on the day of a Total Eclipse. 

But no, the British Ministry cares more about whether being a Capricorn will help you find the love of your life in the next 29 days. 

Pathetic. Completely, irresponsibly pathetic. 

It’s particularly nauseating because astrology actually is a valuable field, especially for Animagus transformations. Yet, people like Jaspers give astrologists a bad rep with his pseudo-astrological predictions and inaccurate research. It’s almost as abhorrent as Muggle magic; Jaspers isn’t even aware of how significant Pluto is in the field, instead discrediting the planet because it’s “too small to matter”.

Idiots. Every single last one of them. He includes himself in that group as well, seeing that he still holds onto the hope that someone in the Ministry will take a second glance at his research and not dismiss it because of his last name. Draco has enough money as it is. He’s not doing this for galleons, he’s doing this because he’s genuinely intrigued but the celestial patterns and its effects on magic.

It’s not often he has to report to the Ministry for his new findings but when he does, it’s always a dreadfully saddening experience. Draco knows that he’s made his mistakes, and he knows that a bit of celestial research won’t atone for those mistakes but Merlin, it wouldn't hurt for someone just to _listen_ to him for once. 

Getting the Ministry’s approval was the last step that he had to complete in order for his findings to be taught in Hogwarts and the most important one. Without it, every study and data he’s collected is no more respected than a Fifth Years’ research project. 

When Windsor’s gruff voice calls him forward to present, Draco wastes no time diving into the findings of his studies about Waxing Gibbous’ and Apparition, trying his best to ignore Jaspers’ enthusiastic thumbs-up and Galatea’s unimpressed scowl. In France, this same theory had been added to the guidelines for Apparition Safety, though from the tired yawns Parcel was letting out, he thinks it’ll be a long time before it’s accepted here. 

When he’s done, his efforts are rewarded with a thick, expensive piece of parchment paper handed to him by Crass’ aged dotted fingers. His rejection letter. This one will go nicely with the other four he has collecting dust in his office.

Regardless, he’ll walk past them with his head held high and his rejection letter clutched in his fist. Not because he was the same snobby arsehole who thought he was better than everyone anymore, but because Draco’s come to realize that he _is_ better than most people’s misconceptions of him. He can rise above their judgments because, at the end of the day, his work spoke for itself.

“Aw better luck next time, yeah?” Jaspers says solemnly once they’re out of the conference room, clapping him on the back. The sodding git didn’t even have anything to present today, he just showed up to annoy Draco. “And sorry about earlier, it turns out it was _Cancers_ that were going to have a good week, not Geminis.” Draco sighs. 

He hates astrologists.

* * *

Draco concludes that he may be a bit of sadist, seeing how much he loved to torture himself reading the Muggle horoscopes that came in the paper. 

Astrology’s validity in the wizarding world doesn’t carry over into the Muggle world so seamlessly. Draco himself embraces aspects of Wizarding Astrology in his work, but Muggle Astrology had no real bases, no foundation, or a theoretical constitution. It was just composed of pretty words lumped together to trick hapless fools into believing common philosophy. 

And yet, like the hapless fool he was, the first page Draco flips to every morning is the horoscope one. 

_Gemini–_

_The world is changing faster than you are. Resist stagnancy; an unexpected development in your life will occur in the most inconspicuous of ways. Embrace the unforeseen, extricate your doubts, and set your intentions with clear-minded wisdom._

“What a complete load of bollocks,” Draco mutters to himself. He throws the crumpled paper onto the table and drains the last bit of pomegranate tea in his porcelain. A note that was to be owled to Pansy this morning gets shoved off to the side. “Are you ready to go Scorpius?”

Who cares what a silly horoscope says? If the creator of that pile of shite knew him, they’ll agree that Draco and Scorpius have had enough change as is. 

At the moment, stagnancy is a luxury and he’s not opposed to welcoming it with open arms.

* * *

“My maths teacher asked to meet with you today.” 

Draco stops short, the toe of his boot catching on an uneven crack in a sidewalk. When his heart lurches, he doesn’t know if it’s from the stumble or from nervousness— though he has a pretty good guess. “Why?”

Scorpius bites his lip, kicking around a rock below. “I dunno. She said that she’s met every parent ‘cept you so far. I guess she’s just curious. You’ve never come into the school before.”

London swirls around them in a brilliant array of people and energies. Draco blows out a breath. He’s been putting off going in there for the longest. While everyone else’s parents freely enter inside the building or outside the doors of the school, Draco stays back, standing as far away from the crowd as possible. Despite the fat stack of Muggle culture books he read prior to leaving wizarding Paris, Draco’s still apprehensive of holding a conversation with one that lasts for longer than a minute. Yet if his ten year old son has been able to do it for a week without any problems, he should be able to too, right?

To be fair, Scorpius is a great deal braver than he was at his age.

Stealing a breath, he nods decidedly. “Sure Scorp. I’ll talk to her when I pick you up today.”

He can feel Scorpius swaying side to side next to him; a strange tic Draco’s picked up on when he’s feeling unsettled. “I mean, you don’t have to, I know Mum never liked to—”

“Your Mother and I are two different people,” Draco says, his voice reeking with spite. He sets his jaw, biting back some of the more scathing criticisms that were slinking up his throat and threatening to spill out from undissolved anger. She was nothing more than Scorpius’ birth mother in Draco’s eyes. To him, Astoria Greengrass was a nobody. She wasn’t _his_ anything. And she certainly wasn’t a Malfoy.

Scorpius’ eyes are matching the color of the sky— a dull film of grey hue, so devoid of light that it looks as though all of the color was sucked out of the irises. “Right,” he sniffles.

A car flies by, lifting Scorpius’ hair and Draco’s stylish Muggle cloak from its impressive velocity. Draco smooths out the wind-mused strands of blonde on his son’s head, easing the hair back behind his ears with soft fingers. 

“I’m sorry. It’s just, your mother wasn’t—”

“Yes. I know.” 

He wants the very best for his son, he really does. Yet how can he show what the best looks like when all he’s gotten from his mother is the worst? And it’s not like Scorpius needs any reminders of his mother’s neglect. From the nervous energy that surrounded him when he asked for Draco to meet his teacher, they’re clearly still fresh in his mind.

His anger is quickly replaced with remorse. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, because he doesn’t quite know what else to say to him. He wasn’t Astoria, so he can’t exactly answer all of Scorpius’ questions about his mother, but he can apologize for her inaction.

Scorpius takes the lead and tugs them along, clearly done discussing his mother for the moment. There’ll be other questions, questions that Draco will need to learn how to answer. Questions that he probably won’t ever be able to answer. But for now, Draco can get away with an apology on her behalf.

They set off towards the school, hand in hand as they usually do, but this time shrouded in an air of silent uneasiness between them.

“So,” Scorpius mutters after walking most of the way to the school in silence. “Do your magic stars say that today is going to be a good day?”

The bell rings, signifying a new day, a fresh beginning. The dark hair child per usual races into the building, only this time he’s followed by a smaller, red-haired girl attempting to keep up with him on stubby legs. 

Maybe that is the change his falsely poetic horoscope foresaw. If so, he thinks he can live with that.

Draco kisses the top of his son’s head. “Oh Scorpius. I didn’t have to look to the stars for that. Every day, including this one, has the potential to be good.” He fixes his hair one last time, making sure every blonde strand is smoothed into place. “Now, go make today great.”

* * *

A flock of crows swoops overhead of the school, their presence and the grey sky above not helping to contradict the school’s ominous aura. Sensing his magic, they ferociously caw at him from their place on the roof, reminding Draco that no matter how many books he reads or the type of clothes he wears, he will never truly belong here.

An unshaven father sitting on a stoop next to him chuckles, nodding towards the crows. “Crazy birds eh?”

Draco gives him a faint smile, his watery grey eyes looking back to the steel door of the school entrance.

He’s promised Scorpius he would do this. He promised, and Draco doesn’t go back to a promise he made his son. So he’ll march into that school building and talk the ears off of his son’s Muggle school teacher even if it kills him.

But that still doesn’t mean he won’t be nervous as hell while doing it.

Putting one foot in front of the other, Draco makes his way up the staircase leading into the school, remembering those breathing techniques Astoria taught him all those years ago. She may have been a shite mother, but he couldn’t deny that she was an excellent person to have around during a panic attack.

Counting his breaths, Draco reminds himself that Muggles were not dangerous. He wouldn’t be burned at the stake—metaphorically or literally—for being a wizard. And if they tried to he had his wand, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and the Muggle Prime Minister to defend him.

The unfathomably thick air squeezes his lungs as he trudged into the school. Ugh, it even _smelled_ like children in here. It occurs to him that any place that houses a hundred tiny, squirming, little bodies at one time would reasonably smell like it.

A distant chattering of children drifts down the empty hallway. Everything, from the plastered pictures of animals drawn with shaky hands, to the gum stained hallway floor is wholly unfamiliar to him. This was nothing like Hogwarts. Without the nearly tangible waves of magic fluttering around him, this place seems obstinately vacant.

Someone coughs adjacent to him and Draco jumps, realizing that he isn’t alone. 

He leans forward to the receptionist’s office, watching warily as two hands clutch each side of a thick novel tap against the cover.

“Excuse me?”

A wiry-haired, wizen woman pushes the book down from her face, a bored expression greeting him from behind the book. Her lips turn down slightly as if annoyed he had the gall to ask a receptionist a question. She only raises her coarse eyebrows in response. 

Draco clears his throat, plastering on his politest, Charm School ingrained smile at the woman. She blinks slowly, still indifferent. Not dangerous, definitely not. 

“Hullo, my name’s Draco Malfoy, my son Scorpius Malfoy goes here.” 

She still looks as if she’ll give up a quid of Muggle money rather than continuing listening to him speak, but at least his voice isn’t wavering. 

He continues again. The faster this was done with the better. “I am supposed to meet with his teacher in room 3329. I think her name is Mrs. Lellory or Leary… where exactly can I find the—”

“Left, left, right, keep straight then left again.”

Her voice is obscenely rough, like she smoked a pack of cigs a day and then some. Or like the churning rocks on gravel. He’d never thought he’d meet someone whose voice was worse than Madam Pince’s shrill squawking. Thankfully she doesn’t speak further, with Draco assuming he’s dismissed when she buries her nose back in the novel, disregarding him even when he bids her a good day.

Well then. That wasn’t too... disastrous. 

Following her instructions, he’s in the 3300’s hallway when he comes upon a sharply dressed woman pointing her finger in the face of two girls amongst a group of sour-faced students.

“Hush! All of you!” 

Draco steps back, wincing as the young woman with her hair in a tight, low bun, snaps at her rowdy group of children to fall in line and shut up. Merlin, Draco wasn’t too fond of children either, but that seemed a bit harsh. And that’s coming from someone who went to Hogwarts for goodness sake.

One of the little girls she was pointing at turns her nose up at the woman from behind her back, then sticks her tongue out, causing a chorus of giggles that Draco may or may not have joined in on. Their teacher snaps again, her thin frame all points and angles as she hisses for them to be quiet. 

If this was Mrs. Lellory, then he just may be excused for being so anxious. 

But it’s not. Because the high pitched sound of a child’s voice excitedly shouts, _‘Misses Lellory, Misses Lellory!’_ , and Draco is relieved at the sight that greets him when he turns around.

A tall, plump woman is exiting room 3326, getting her small children in a straight line before releasing them out into the hallway. She’s pretty, with sleek auburn hair, a faint blush on her rounded cheeks, and a yellow sundress brushing past her ankles. 

And not once does she snap at her students, instead deciding to bend down at their level and speak to them with a calming smile on her face. 

He waits until every child has walked quietly down the hallway before making his move, feeling far less unnerved than before.

“Excuse me, are you Mrs. Lellory?”

The woman turns around, a brilliant smile and twirled dress skirt greeting him as she does. She holds out her hand. “Why yes, I am. Mr. Malfoy, Scorpius’ father, correct?”

He smiles coyly at her, taking her hand and giving it a polite shake. “Yes. How did you know?” His nose twitches. “It’s the hair, isn’t it?”

“I was actually going to say the accent, but hair is a very close second,” she laughs cheekily.

She’s charming. Also, she knows how to pronounce Scorpius’ name. Not a bad first impression. Not bad at all. 

“Dad!” 

Draco turns and sees his son, all wind-blown silver-blonde hair and redden cheeks sprinting towards him with his arms outstretched. Draco smiled and opened his arms to catch him. Scorpius was a little too big to be picked up and coddled anymore but Draco didn’t care. He was planning on picking him up for as long as he could. 

Scorpius grumbled that he was _ten years old Dad_ and thus too heavy to be picked up in front of all his new friends, regardless of how empty the hallway was at the moment. Draco just rolls his eyes and plants a soft kiss on his head, wordlessly and wandlessly casting a Lightening Charm on his book bag to ease the weight in his arms because he genuinely was too heavy to pick up. 

“How was school?” He asks. 

Scorpius wiggles around in his arms for a moment. “I’ll tell you if you let me down.”

Draco smirks. He couldn’t wait to see his son’s shirt adorned with a Slytherin green crest. Dutifully obliging, he sets him back down and is immediately engulfed in a rapid succession of excited, ten year old babbling. 

Mrs. Lellory laughs, her voice an airy, pleasant tune. Much better than the receptionist’s. “Why don’t you tell him about your new friend, Al, Scorpius?”

_Al?_ He mutters wonderingly under his breath, utterly perplexed by this new development in his son’s life. How, between focusing on work and worrying about Scorpius’s adjustments, had he overlooked the fact that he managed to make a new friend? In less than a week nonetheless. 

“Oh yeah, Al’s my new best friend. His dad is my English teacher here and he has a sister that goes to this school too! His older brother James left for The Boarding School but he says he’ll be back for Easter so I can meet him. I can meet him, right Dad?” Draco nods distractedly. He and Scorpius had come up with several code words to describe wizarding places and things around Muggles. ‘The Boarding School’ was what they called Hogwarts. He’s glad. At least he knows that some of his classmates have wizarding backgrounds. The last thing he wants is for this lifestyle change to distance him from the wizarding world. 

And apparently, Al’s father, who was also Scorpius’ teacher, was a wizard too? Why had Scorpius kept this to himself for so long? 

"And look what I drawed!”

“Drew,” Draco corrects softly, craning his neck to look at the crumpled piece of paper Scorpius waves in his face. 

His son shrugs and continues to excitedly wave in the air a childishly drawn picture of him and a dark-haired boy with green eyes and brown skin. Draco raises a brow in interest. “It’s me and Al. Though, I don’t know why it isn’t moving.” He brings the paper to his face and inspects the drawing with a pondering frown. 

Mrs. Lellory gives Draco a strange look. Draco pats Scorpius’ head a bit too forcefully, ignoring his son’s hissed ‘ _ow’_ and shoots her an apologetic smile. “He just has a bit of an overactive imagination is all.” Scorpius pouts in confusion. Draco keeps the smile on his face until he’s sure it was beginning to form into more of a nervous grimace than a grin. 

That’s another thing on his to-do list. He’ll have to inform Scorpius that pictures in the Muggle world don’t move. Lest the Statute of Secrecy be broken by an overly earnest ten year old, he’s beginning to realize that there’s going to be a lot about Muggles that Draco will have to explain. 

“Scorpius, why don’t you go play while I talk to Professor Lellory for a moment, hm?” Scorpius is off in a flash, heading towards the direction of a large metal contraption that several other children were climbing on. 

She blushes prettily, though for a moment Draco wonders if he’s managed to offend her by the surprised expression riddled on her features. “Oh you’re too kind, Mr. Malfoy, but I’m no professor. Please, just call me Ana.”

Another thing to add, he supposes.

Without warning a wild-haired, tanned child with a jungle of dark hair, suddenly breezes in between the two adults, in a race to the playing area, running like he’s about to miss the Hogwarts Express. Draco briefly recalls that it’s the same dark-haired child that runs into the school building every morning. It’s almost endearing that the boy enthusiastically races everywhere. 

Almost, until the little twerp steps on his foot in his mad dash to the outside world.

Draco grunts from the sharp pain, grinding his teeth and hissing obscenities under his breath. Ana chides him with a stern mouth, reminding him that some point system was still in effect regardless that it was the end of the day, but the child only flashes her a brief, apologetic smile as he plunges through the metal doors that lead out to the play area.

Draco narrows his eyes, the weight of repressed childhood memories returning to his mind in an unforgiving rush.

That smile. It felt all too reminiscent of another smile, pulled at the corners slightly in a ruffled, half-sheepish half-apologetic one. One that he, until very recently, detested. The name lingers in his brain, but Draco finds himself too preoccupied in watching as the boy darts straight towards an equally rambunctious Scorpius. Scorpius welcomes him with an air of familiarity and Draco really wants to know when _this_ happened.

“I am so sorry about that, Mr. Malfoy. That boy has gotten more troublesome with each passing day. Now, where were we again?”

Before or after he had his toenail stomped off? 

Turning back to his son’s teacher, he smiles politely, recalling their conversation before a certain rude-mannered creature interrupted them. “Well, I was just about to say that you can call me Draco, Ana. Now if I may ask, how has Scorpius been adjusting so far? I know it’s only the first week but with us not being in Paris and all…”

He flexes his foot. Barmy little arsehole.

The sternness in her mouth relaxes and Ana nods her head in quiet understanding. “Ah, I see. Scorpius is a bit on the shy side, but I think Al is helping him open up more to the others.” Her mouth curls into an amused smirk. “And wouldn’t you just love to know who Albus is?”

When she points a ringed finger to the dark-haired boy that had rushed by them, that wry smile is fully formed on her lips.

Draco makes a noise of contempt. _Him?_ The same Al that Scorpius had drawn? What rotten luck he had for that rude, slippery little boy being his son’s new friend. And more than that, he apparently already had an influence on Scorpius. 

“Ew,” he mutters under his breath without thinking.

“What was that?”

“I didn’t say anything,” he mends quickly. Insulting a child was definitely the wrong way to start off the parent-teacher relationship he was hoping to cultivate. 

Sensing his disapproval, Ana assures him, “He’s actually a really good boy Mr. Mal— Draco. Sorry.” Draco twists his lip up, unconvinced. People who smile like that never lead to anything good for him. They were too charming, too good, to open that people are always far too blind to see their true intentions.

He knows this is a lot to put on the fragile shoulders of a strange child that seems to have taken beautifully with his son. But Draco knows from experience how deceiving people can be, and it’s only right for him to do his best to protect his over-trusting child.

Ana pulls him out of his staring with a polite cough. “If you don’t mind me asking, why did you choose to enroll Scorpius into Brookington?”

Draco bites his lip. “I, uh…” _Come on Draco, be honest,_ “I wanted to place him to experience a bit more diversity at this stage in his life,” he states as honestly as he can. 

She hums thoughtfully. “Well, you’ll definitely find a lot of that here. We have students from various racial and ethnic groups that attend the school, so you and your son won’t have to look far.”

He raises a brow before wiping the confused expression off of his face and smiling as if that was his intent the entire time. Right, to Muggles, ‘diversity’ meant diverse _races_ , not diversity in blood status. If that was the issue then he would have kept Scorpius in Charm School, because it was far more racially diverse than this school claimed to be. Besides Al, he hasn’t seen a single person of color here.

Merlin, it seemed like he was always making the wrong decisions with him. 

“Excellent! That’s uh, that’s exactly what we were looking for, so thank you.”

“So why Paris?” Ana asks with genuine curiosity. 

Usually, Draco would bristle and snap at someone for asking so many questions of him, yet he’s finding patience for her. She at least seems relatively harmless. As much as he was loathed to admit it, it has everything to do with the fact that she’s a Muggle. It sounds unfair but their cluelessness was refreshing. “London’s nice but Paris is… _Paris_. That’s pretty tough to beat.”

Draco lets out a rather combative breath. “Yeah.” He searches for something to say as he stares out of the window, his eyes searching for signs of malice in a ten year old boy who could be thrown askew by a strong gust of wind. Warm, brown eyes penetrate his skin as she waits for further explanation. “Scorpius and I are going through a bit of a transition right now. I thought— I thought the move may help him.” His mouth feels too full suddenly and he has to swallow to keep his emotions and his speech in check. “It’s just actually helping him that’s the hard part.”

Her answer is swift and immediate. “While I’m assuming his life in Paris is nothing like London,” Oh how little does she know, “You should know that I think change is good. And children tend to be more adaptable than we give them credit for Draco.”

“And if he’s not?”

Ana sticks up her chin determinedly. “Then I’ll be there for him.” She sounds so sure of herself for a woman that’s only known his son for a week. Perhaps that’s all it takes for normal people, people not named _Astoria_ _Greengrass_ , to feel protective of him. 

He shoots her a grateful smile. He feels himself already liking this woman. 

She puts a hand on his sleeve, not knowing she was edging dangerously close to his Mark. “You shouldn’t worry yourself. Your son is a lovely addition to our class this year. He’s wonderfully bright and such a sweetheart.” She lowers her voice, “And I’d say he’s doing us all a favor in passing on some manners to that little devil he’s playing with.” She winks coyly at him.

His heart swells with pride from her fervent gushing. He knew Scorpius could do it. “That’s just a relief, really.” He looks out the window and catches sight of Scorpius playing with his supposed friend Al, who trips over his feet as they run around. “And if there’s anything at all that I can do to help assist either you or Scorpius, please let me know. I want to be as involved as possible in my son’s education.”

Ana raises her brows, looking vaguely impressed by his bluntness. “Is that so?” Draco nods without hesitation. “Well, in that case, there is something I think you and Scorpius will benefit from knowing about.”

Like a bird ready to take flight, Draco leans forward on his feet, eager to get started. “Yes! Yes whatever it is, I’ll do it.” Dangerous to say, but Draco really would do anything if it was for Scorpius.

Ana holds up a finger in a ‘one moment’ gesture, disappearing into her classroom and coming out with an outstretched glossy pamphlet and a smile. Draco frowns at the pamphlet she hands him.

“PT…?”

“PTA. It stands for Parent Teacher Association. It’s a great way to stay involved in Scorpius’ education,” Ana says, pointing a red nailed finger on the paper. “We always try to encourage parents to get involved but it’s difficult recruiting a good group of dedicated parents.” Draco huffs. Well, he was definitely a dedicated parent. “Why don’t you look over it tonight and whenever you’re ready, you can let me know what you think.”

Draco waves the pamphlet in the air. “I certainly will.” He hears Scorpius’ squeals of laughter and he smiles. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad.

* * *

That night, Draco flips through the pamphlet over and over again in his hands, chewing his lip nervously as he re-reads the same, overly enthusiastic text repeatedly. On the glossy paper, non-moving pictures of Muggle families and satisfied parents with artificial smiles plastered on their faces, are placed strategically around the edges of the pamphlet.

_Help Your Child Be The Best They Can Be: Join The PTA Today!_

Next to him, Scorpius noisily slurps down several spaghetti noodles. It was the only thing Draco knew how to cook at the moment but thankfully Scorpius didn’t seem to mind much. Either that or he was masquerading his distaste for the dish under his overly enthusiastic eating. He had to admit, he does miss the convenience of house-elves. Learning to cook dishes other than the three variations of spaghetti he knew was on his ever-growing to-do list.

“Wass dat?” Scorpius asks through a full mouth of noodles. Draco wrinkles his nose. He usually isn’t such a messy eater, but spaghetti has a way of bringing out the grubby side of any ten year old.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Draco half-heartedly scolds. He was still fixated on the strange pamphlet in his hands. “And it’s… an opportunity. Mrs. Lellory gave it to me.”

Scorpius, still messily hovelling spaghetti into his mouth (he _really_ has to learn how to cook something else), looks at him with intrigued eyes. He chews, pointing his mouth then to the pamphlet, in a silent reiteration of his previous question. 

Draco slowly breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth. He could do this, it was just a silly Muggle school program, right? What was the worst that could happen?

“Scorpius, what would you think if I did this?” He holds the pamphlet up for him to read, making sure to note if Scorpius has to squint to read the text only a few feet away. For all the time he’s made fun of Potter’s thick-rimmed glasses, his own son seems to need them now. “Answer honestly… and chew your food first.”

Making a point to chew widely and swallowing loudly, Scorpius shrugs. “I guess. What’s a PT… is that an ‘A’?” 

Draco sighs. Glasses. Most definitely. 

“It means Parent Teacher Association. Basically, I’ll be helping out around your school and doing… stuff. Important stuff, I’m sure.” He doesn’t exactly know what a ‘booster club’ was but hopefully it was better than that god awful Slug Club? 

He shrugs again, acting far more concerned about the food on his plate than Draco’s new prerogative. “Sure, I guess.” He twirls a noodle around and around with his fork, the Italian red sauce making circular patterns on the plate. His eyes lifting upwards, lighting up hopefully. “Does that mean you’ll get to hang out with me and Al at school?”

Draco draws his nose up. Ew. “I certainly hope not,” he says before he can stop himself.

Scorpius frowns, his nose twitching nervously. “Don't you want to be with me?”

His heart lurches. “Of course I do! But it’s not you that’s the problem Scorp. It’s your little snotty-nosed friend that I don’t like. My foot still aches from his hooves digging into it.” Bitterness is laced in his words, the sting in his foot re-emerging at the memory.

“Al isn’t _that_ bad Dad.” 

“Ha! That’s rich coming from the same boy who befriended him. I don’t think you’re the best judge of character, kid.” 

He can’t help it, someone, even if it’s his own son, has to face the wrath of his acerbic wit at least once a day or he is sure that he’ll wither away. And besides, when prompted, Scorpius can dish it right back at him. For a ten year old child, his son was an excellent verbal sparring partner. 

A familiar looking wry grin appears on Scorpius’ face as he twirls his spaghetti noodles into a large circle around his fork. He holds up a forkful and stares at it with an unimpressed expression, very similar to the one he wears whenever he smells red sauce and noodles coming from the kitchen. “Says the dad who only made spaghetti for the past ten days. I think we all have our flaws.”

Draco rolls his eyes. Whatever. His cooking was low hanging fruit. That hadn’t stung in the slightest… 

“Can I go to bed now? All this spaghetti is making me queasy.” Scorpius pouts ridiculously and rubs his tummy for added flair of dramatics that he had mostly definitely _not_ inherited from him. Lucius Malfoy would have never stood for pouting in his Manor.

“Scram, you ungrateful little thing.” Scorpius giggles and grabs his green dragon stuffie, leaving his barely touched spaghetti cold on his plate and Draco staring at his empty seat. 

He tries to conclude with his meal, but the smiling faces of nuclear Muggle families on the pamphlet stare back at him. 

_What are you going to do, Draco?_

He flips the pamphlet over so that it’s only the blue background that he sees. First, he was going to learn how to cook something other than spaghetti. **  
**


	2. Churyumov-Gerasimenko

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm...posting every Wednesday seems a bit tedious for a ten chapter fic. Let's shoot for every other day instead.

Draco hurried over to the Apparition point, the large, bold print of the time on his Muggle watch glaring at him. “Yes, yes I know,” he grumbled at the damned thing. He actually really loved the stupid watch; it had been one of Pansy’s more thoughtful and less salacious birthday gifts. However, it tended to only increase his nervousness. Like now, since he was very, very close to being late to pick Scorpius up from school. 

It shouldn’t bother him this much. He sees parents pick their children up late from the school all the time and not turn their hair grey if they're a few minutes past time. But not Draco. He valued punctuality too much. So much so, that he had ran out of his presentation with the Astrology and Astronomy department and into the nearest men’s room to hastily change into his Muggle clothing. His fingers are fiddling with his last undone button when he rushes to Apparate. 

It’s a Waxing Gibbous, and he knows better than to Apparate anywhere in a rush during this time. He _knows_ better, hell, he wrote the guidelines for why it was important _not_ to do so all those unfortunate months ago.

He knows this, yet Draco’s panting by the time he makes it into the school.

Draco takes this as a win for the day. Not Splinching his bits off should always be considered a win.

Ana’s there in a floral dress as she hands out candy to eager little children excited for the weekend. If he had any breath left in his body, he would have laughed, the image of Snape giving out candy to terrified first years too ridiculous to consider.

“Draco! Hello, how are you?” She furrows her brows, inspecting his sweaty face with concerned brown eyes. “Are you alright? You look a bit peaky—”

Draco gives her a breathless half-smile, pushing a long strand of hair away from his face. “No, no, I’m quite alright. Just came back from a, uh… jog?” He swallows, trying fruitlessly to lubricate his dry throat. 

Draco doesn’t jog. He doesn’t even exercise.

Ana nods, seeming thoroughly unconvinced but letting it go all the same. He’s grateful. “Did you get a chance to look over that pamphlet I gave you?” 

He takes a deep breath and straightens his back. He could do this. He’s survived the Dark Lord, he can survive a simple Muggle program. “I did and I think I’ll be up for it, if there’s room available.”

Somewhere, in the deep recesses of his conscience, he is hoping that there wasn’t room. At least he could say he tried, without feeling guilty. 

“Excellent! And don’t worry there’s always room available for parent volunteers. I’ll put you on the listserv so you can get an update about our next meeting but first, what is your email address?”

Draco gulps. Oh fuck, this was going to be harder than he thought. Every ounce of confidence he’s managed to build up overnight has vanished completely, his chest deflating in discouragement. 

“E...mail?” He shifts uncomfortably, smiling in a way that must make him look like he was a horribly socially awkward twat and hopefully not like a bloody wizard who has no concept of whatever the hell an email was. It didn’t say anything about emails in the dozen of Muggle culture books he studied feverishly that week before they left France. He’s heard of a telephone and a book of faces and something that tweets but email? Maybe it’s an uncommon communication method among Muggles.

Or maybe the book did say something about it and it was at the part where his head was swimming and his vision blurring.

She gives him a pretty, slightly confused smile. “Yes, I’ll need your email address.” Her tone is patient but it only increases his nervousness further. He could just hear the seconds on his watch _tick tick tick_ -ing away as she waits for an answer.

Does his home address count?

“Ha! Yeah, _email._ That’s right. Um, I do have one of those, definitely.” 

A strangled noise of embarrassment and anxiety squeezed the life out of his lungs, all while he was standing there smiling like a fool under Ana’s patient gaze. His hands started doing weird motions in the air as he tried to articulate a well-scripted lie that didn’t make him out to sound like a complete nutter.

“It’s… it’s…”

“It’s dmalfoy@gmail.com.”

A voice, deep and familiar seizes his attention like he was just delivered a Stinging Hex on the arse. 

Or better yet, like a _Sectumsempra_ on the chest.

The past and the present smack him across the face when he turns and sees Harry Potter standing behind them, looking dreadfully intimidating with his broad frame and crossed arms. 

And bloody hell, if Potter didn’t look good.

He’s still wearing those horrific circular framed glasses, but the sight is not as unappealing as it was thirteen years ago. His dark hair looks far better than it did in school, the curled locks brushing just past his ears. What chokes him up most is the groomed beard Potter’s sporting, turning him into the physical reincarnation of Draco’s schoolboy fantasies. Had Potter looked like this when they were sixteen, things would have turned out far differently.

A spark of heat burns a hole through Draco’s heart; Potter’s presence and attractiveness having everything to do with it. 

It’s like hate at first sight all over again. 

“ _Potter…_ ” 

Ana, keen enough to sense that there was some shared history between them, shifts uncomfortably next to him, her clipboard tight in her ringed hands. 

His mouth wrinkles into an irritated snarl. She asked for an _e-mail_ , not a _g-mail._ After all these years, stupid Potter has yet to learn how to mind his own. 

Potter puts a hand on Draco’s shoulder and gives it a little shake. His natural reaction is to growl indignantly. He hasn’t seen Potter since the trials, since Draco was paraded around the wizarding world as nothing more than a vicious war criminal. He can’t just touch him so casually as if they don’t have a shared history. As if nothing even matters and they’re just two wizards navigating the Muggle world together.

“He’s always forgetting things,” Potter explains. Flashing her a smile that could read as charming to literally anyone but Draco, his fingers grip onto his shoulder with a friendly familiarity. He leans towards Ana, cupping a hand over his mouth and loudly whispering in a faux secretive tone to her, “Can you believe he’s only 31? The doctors say not to start worrying at this early stage unless he starts misplacing his keys in the refrigerator.” 

Ana laughs, clearly finding whatever the hell Potter meant utterly hilarious. Draco grinds his teeth, his body growing hot under his hand. This was _his_ Muggle friend; Potter can fuck all the way off. 

“Oh don’t I know it,” Ana laments with a weary sort of humor, “My husband’s terrible at remembering to lock the car.” In the distance, a child's echoed screams about being shoved grabs her attention and she gives them both an exasperated smile. “I’ll add you down and send you all the information by tonight, Draco.”

He gives her a tight smile, betrayal bitter and fresh in it.

“How long have you been eavesdropping?” Draco hisses once the click-clacking of Ana’s heels had faded away. He yanks his shoulder from under his hand, the spot tingling as warmed flesh meets cool air. Potter rolls his sleeves up his arms, the Muggle button up looking annoyingly handsome on his body. He has a strong urge to eavesdrop himself to find out why he was walking around in a tailored Muggle outfit. It wasn’t like Aurors had any Muggles to impress. 

Potter crosses his arms over his chest defensively. “Long enough to realize that you were five seconds away from looking like an eccentric nonconformist in front of your son’s Muggle teacher. _Everyone_ has an email these days, Malfoy.”

Draco pretends he doesn’t hear him, scowling off into the distance as if he doesn’t exist. Harry Potter hasn’t existed in his world for years now. Draco was determined to continue that streak even if Potter wasn’t. 

Potter sighs in his ear. “There’s a Muggle library two blocks on East Cavern. Go in there and ask for Sagitta. She’s one of us so she won’t look at you funny when you ask to be shown how to create an email address.” Draco sucks the inside of his cheeks in annoyance, rolling his eyes. Unsolicited advice was probably his biggest pet peeve and it was just like Potter to give it. 

Draco counts the tiles on the ceiling, refusing to give in. 

“You can try to ignore me all you want, Malfoy. But you’ll be seeing me around a lot more these days.” Draco snaps his eyes from the stained ceiling to Potter’s impassive green eyes. Seeing his reaction, Potter’s lip curls upward into a haughty smile that Draco hasn’t been the target of since his school days. He shudders, not waiting to be reminded of Hogwarts. “That’s right. My son Albus goes here, so get used to it.”

Draco nearly swallows his tongue. Bloody fucking hell, _Albus?_ As in Scorpius’ Albus? 

Oh he was going to be sick all over these scuffed floors. Of all the nice Muggle kids in this sodding school, his son befriended a Potter? And not just any Potter, but one that was an exact replica of Harry Potter?

Wait… if Albus was Potter’s son and if Scorpius said that his teacher was his new friend’s father who was also a wizard, then that means… 

Bloody hell. How could he have missed it?! The green eyes, those rambunctious smiles, the inherent disregard for other people’s feelings. Hell, even his sodding name, _Albus._ The universe was giving him all the signs and yet he chose to ignore it like the ignorant sod he was. And now, Potter’s here, teaching his son Merlin knows what and controlling his education for the next year.

He’ll just have to switch schools, that’s all. Maybe even switch cities too. He can speak Spanish. Barcelona is looking beautiful this time of year… 

“And Malfoy?”

His voice is egregiously posh as he snaps, “What?” 

Potter smirks, one eyebrow raised in that same smug arrogance his wild-haired spawn inherited. “Your fly’s been down this entire time. Maybe fix it when you get a chance, yeah?”

Draco’s face burns when he looks down and sees a sliver of black pants peeking out from his grey trousers. He looks up and Potter’s walking away, the sound of his laughter echoing in the nearly empty hallway.

Fortunately for Potter, being in the middle of Muggle London protects him from being hex senseless. Unfortunately for Draco, being in the middle of Muggle London prevents him from hexing Potter senseless.

The only thing left to do is stew in his anger.

Draco balls his hands into fists. He should have known not to rush during a fucking Waxing Gibbous.

* * *

Sagitta, as it turns out, is nothing at all like he expected her to be. She looked completely Wizarding in her appearance, an oddity amid Muggles. He doesn’t miss the dragonhide on her boots or the Ravenclaw class ring on her finger. 

She also looked exceedingly young, like she had just graduated from Hogwarts. So young, that he reckons that she had no idea about his family’s history.

The dark-skinned witch smiles warmly at him, looking strangely pleased by his presence when she appears from behind a cart of self-help books. With a swish of her long dreadlocks and several pressed buttons later, Draco was the proud new owner of an email account. 

Draco would say that having an email made him feel like a real adult, but it only makes him realize how little he actually knows about the Muggle world. What other secret Muggle things was he missing out on? He leaves the library with a new determination to learn every gadget and gidget and widget Muggles use these days. An email was a start, but as Draco enters the school that Friday for the first PTA meeting, he wonders if he should get that book of faces thing as well. Who knows, it might help Scorpius.

The classroom Ana said to meet at is directly next to hers, so Draco doesn’t have to bother asking the grizzly receptionist any questions. It’s not like she would answer him anyhow. She was sleeping under a book when he walked past her desk.

When he enters into the bright yellow classroom, a group of chattering parents sits in the rows of seats set out for them, looking comfortable with each other and ignoring his presence completely. Draco’s grateful. He doesn’t fancy talking much. 

“And can you believe it, they said the Headmaster was fired for misconduct!” The blonde woman in front of him says, looking appalled by whatever situation she was referring to. “I’m glad I had the good sense to send my son here instead of Stonewall. Who knows what sort of mischief he would get up to there!”

The Asian woman in a wheelchair she’s chattering to nods, her eyes glazed over in utter boredom as the first woman continues to speak to her in that same, squeaky voice of hers. Draco winces. He feels her pain; Jaspers was the same way with him.

He slowly backs away from the blonde lady before she can make him her next victim, bumping into a solid back as he does.

“Oh! I’m so very—” he chokes, “Potter?!” 

Bleedin’ Potter is here, looking highly amused by Draco’s flustered sputtering. The tip of that legendary scar peaks out through the fringe of his black hair and he wonders what fib Potter tells Muggles when they see it. 

“Malfoy,” he says around a mouthful of the crackers and cheese set out for them, “fancy seeing you here.”

Draco lifts his nose in the air derisively. “I can’t quite say the same for you.” 

Anger and anxiety blossom in the pit of his throat, threatening to explode into some magical occurrence if he’s not careful. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. The _Churyumov-Gerasimenko_ comet was about to finish its orbit around the Sun this month and he had to be careful of his emotions influencing his magic during this time. Balance was important, but so was figuring out why Harry Potter’s presence continued to be a constant in his life.

Constant would be generous. It’s more like a never-ending plague. Potter comes and goes into his life all the time like he has the right and Draco wants to know why.

So, in an even, steady voice, he demands, “However, I would like to know why it is you insist on stalking me.”

He jumps in surprise when Potter throws his head back and laughs. Several people’s eyes are drawn in their direction from Potter’s booming laughter. “Stalking you? Malfoy, you do realize that we would inevitably be in the same room together?” He cocks his head, genuinely concerned that he may be too stupid to understand. “I’m your son’s teacher for goodness sake, you should expect to see me.”

Draco bristles, not wanting to be reminded of the unfortunate reality. “I don’t care what—”

“Harry!” 

Of all the people to call out Potter’s name so enthusiastically in the middle of a Muggle school, Draco hadn’t suspected that Terry Boot would be that person. 

Boot is the personification of his surname. He stomps in between Potter and Draco, easily pushing Draco out with his large frame, disregarding him like a piece of dust. Draco snarls at both Boot and Potter from behind his back. Potter’s all smiles as he talks to him, clapping him on his broad back as the two migrate to the front of the room, chatting, forgetting him. 

Whatever. Draco wasn’t here to be remembered anyways. 

He finds himself a seat in the back, far away from the other parents talking amongst themselves and especially far away from Potter and Boot laughing together at the front of the room. Draco taps his foot impatiently and checks his watch. 5:05. The meeting was supposed to start five minutes ago. Where the hell was the sodding leader of this group?

Another three minutes go by and Draco’s foot _tap tap taps_ away on the scuffed flooring. So maybe not everyone was prone to his punctual timeliness, but really, no one has all day to be waiting around. The person who runs this thing should be more considerate of other people’s time.

Draco’s staring at his watch as another minute goes by when a booming voice silences the group. 

“Alright! Good afternoon everyone. If you don’t know already, my name’s Harry Potter and I'll be working as the President of this PTA group.”

From the back of the room, Draco squeaks in abject horror. The air shifts and catches in his throat at the same time, turning against him.

He’s sitting in a Muggle PTA meeting with Harry Potter. Potter, armed with his stupid dimples and smooth confidence, is the President of said PTA group. And, worst of all, his son’s sodding teacher at his new school. 

Call it paranoia, but Draco swears Potter gives him the faintest hint of a wink when he finishes his introduction.

He always seems to have losing numbers when it comes to Harry Potter. While everyone sits, listening intently to Potter about the outline for this year’s PTA group, Draco plans a discreet escape from this Potter-led hell. He refuses to be another one of the Savior’s mindless minions. 

Draco wrinkles his nose at the gaggle of people watching and listening to Potter’s babbling with avid interest, politely nodding in agreement every so often. It was disgusting, truly. How little did these people know that they were only contributing to Potter’s already inflated ego; he can’t be worshiped in the Wizarding world and the Muggle one. He just can’t.

Something’s got to give. Draco decides that it should be him. 

Unwilling to sit here and be a part of Potter’s circus show any longer, he clutches to the edge of his seat, waiting for the perfect moment to slip out unnoticed.

The metal chairs everyone is sitting in squeaks and groans whenever a person shifts in their seat, and he’s wondering if he’ll be able to cast a subtle _Muffliato_ to mask the sound. 

“...And of course, like always, let’s give a proper welcome to our new parent to the group! Draco, come up to the front and introduce yourself!”

Following Potter’s pointed finger at least twenty eyes turn to him, catching Draco just as he was lifting to his feet to slip out of this hellish reality. Twenty pairs of eyes freeze him in place.

The chatty blonde woman with awfully thin blonde eyebrows and an even thinner mouth claps cheerily for him and it’s not long before the rest of the group is clapping in unison. People move out of the way, an invitation for him to move forward in the crowd and stand up in front of the classroom. 

Feeling like a naughty student put on the spot, Draco snaps his back straight and manages to make his way next to Potter on shaking legs.

“What are you doing Potter?” Draco asks in his ear through a clenched-teeth smile, waving nervously to the group of parents clapping politely. His heart is pounding in his ears, so much so, that he hardly hears himself speak. He wonders if his tongue even moved at all.

“Just go with it,” Potter replies through an equally clenched smile. He claps Draco on the shoulder twice as if they were good friends and not childhood nemeses. Good grief did Potter have an arm on him. Draco flexes his shoulder when Potter’s not looking. “Everyone, this Draco Malfoy.”

“I can introduce myself,” grumbles Draco. Only, he can’t because Merlin, this was such a large group of Muggles and he seems to temporarily lose the ability of speech. His quip to Potter catches midway in his throat, coiling and constricting around itself.

His heart rate spikes in fear. What if he slips up, says something that distinguishes him from them? Unintentionally proved himself to be different, to be an _other?_ He wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers, hyper-aware of how odd his wizarding name and waist length white-blonde hair was amongst this group of regular looking Muggles. Even his dragon earring, the black metal that looped down from his Helix to his earlobe, just screamed _other._

His magic feels like a hive full of buzzing honey bees swirling around in the cavity of his chest. 

“Draco and his son Scorpius are new here from Paris,” Potter explains to the group. Draco shoots him a searing look. How did he know that? Then he remembers. Of course he knows, the git was Scorpius’ sodding teacher. He chokes on his disgust— that may never go away. “It’s a good thing too because now there’s finally a child at this school that can talk some sense into Al; in English and in French.”

The group laughs heartily, the parents exchanging knowing smiles and sharing good-natured jokes amongst themselves about Albus Potter’s wild ways. 

Bloody hell, he shouldn’t have decided to wear all black today. He must look odd; he feels odd. Draco shifts on his feet. Twenty faces keep laughing in front of him and he wonders if he was the thing they were laughing at.

He checks to make sure his Dark Mark is covered. Then holds his sleeve to his wrist, just in case. 

Draco manages to take a shaky breath and begins a list in his mind of every time he bested Potter in school in an attempt to calm his nerves. It’s a bit disheartening because the list is pitifully short. 

“Anything else you fancy sharing Malfoy?” Potter places his hands on his hips, looking disturbingly pleased by Draco’s shaking and discomfort. Pink lips spoiled with arrogance curl at the edges when his leg starts trembling. 

“No. Thanks, Potter.”

And then because he doesn't give a damn about appearances anymore, Draco scurries to the back of the room and slumps into his original seat, wishing that Potter could just do him a solid this one time and redirect the attention away from him. 

He melts into his seat, feeling all the more anxious than he did when he was standing in front of the room. His long braid swings on along the back of his chair, the tail swishing with each movement of his head.

He’s always wanted attention when he was younger. He’d take every open path he could to make himself remembered. However, the post-war version of himself learned that attention isn’t always all that it’s cracked up to be. Large crowds staring at him always feel like the Wizengamot glaring down with critical eyes and tight mouths. He can’t breathe whenever he’s in front of one, his breath tightening and suffocating like he’s trying to breathe with his face covered in plastic. It’s god awful and he doesn’t quite see anything humorous about his discomfort from the attention.

Of course Potter, who has only received positive attention all his life, doesn’t understand this. 

Time feels surreal as Potter finishes talking and opens the floor up for suggestions. When the desire to feel small appears, Draco wraps his arms tightly around himself, wondering when his life became so convoluted that he ended up here. He doesn’t even notice the figure looming over him until he feels the tap on his shoulder.

The blonde woman smiles down at him, her white, toothy grin too big for her thin lips. “Draco, is it?” He can’t even nod before she is vigorously shaking his hand like he was the Muggle Queen. “I’m Kacia, I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself earlier.”

He nods politely, his throat too closed up to speak without his voice coming out as anything more than a pitiful squeaking sound. It doesn’t seem to matter much anyway, because Kacia speaks enough for the both of them. She rabbits away about her son that was apparently in the same year as Scorpius, about how much fun PTA activities were, and how _great_ Harry is as a President. From across the room, a pair of green eyes watch their interaction, scrutinizing his every action.

He can’t help but think that he’s being tested in some perverse, twisted way. 

Draco can hardly exaggerate the sigh of relief he lets out once Kacia leaves with the rest of the parents, leaving him and Potter in the empty room. He also can’t exaggerate the spike of hatred that burns through his veins at Potter’s dastardly smug look aimed right at him.

“You looked a bit peaky up there Malfoy,” Potter says. Sunlight from the open window casts light around his face, his suspicion illuminated by the rays. “Still battling with your prejudice against Muggles?” 

Draco blinks. Breathes—in through his nose, out through his mouth. Remembers who he was here for, not what he was here to prove. 

Jaw set into a stringently sharp line he says, “What is this, some sort of test? To see what exactly?” His chin is quivering and he just might scream from the entire bloody situation. 

“To see when you will crack. It’s only a matter of time.” His body is like a wall, somehow looming over him despite his shorter height, encasing him in a shroud of distrust. 

His still shaking hands knock against Potter’s hard chest at the blink of the eye. It doesn’t do much; these days Potter’s body is made up of an impressive amount of muscle, but it does feel good to inflict pain on something. God he hates him, he really does. He doesn’t understand. Putting him on the spot like that? It was like he was _asking_ for him to entertain everyone with a panic attack. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

How dare he assume that Draco hadn’t learned _anything_ from the war? No, he’d learned nothing from Voldemort literally taking residence in his home and being forever marked as one of them. Somehow Potter’s got it in his mind that Draco was up to something, and was sick enough to use his own child as… what? As a way to infiltrate Muggle spaces and harm innocent children? 

He shoves him again, harder, his palms aching from force and twenty years of guilt as he does.

Fury creeps up from the base of his spine. How bloody dare he. Draco knew who he was, even if Potter didn’t.

“You don’t know me Potter,” he snarls, his face so close that he can feel Potter’s hot, even breathes on his lips. Draco shoves a finger into his chest, not bothering to try to conceal how badly it was shaking. Potter doesn’t even flinch. “So don’t act like you do. Some of us have grown up since Hogwarts.” 

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He’s stressed and tired and angry, so, _so_ angry, and Potter and his stupid green eyes aren’t helping to quell the drumming in his ears. 

"You think this is one big ploy, don't you?" Potter’s unfazed, just staring at him with this blank, unyielding stare as if reiterating his previous statement. He’ll believe it when he sees it. And right now, Draco was doing the very opposite of counteracting that sentiment. “Bugger off. I have nothing to prove to you.” 

He turns for the door, making sure his braid whips Potter in the chest as he does. The classroom door slams behind him, Potter’s name tag on the polished wood shattering into hundreds of tiny pieces from the force of his unbalanced magic. 

* * *

The thing about Potter was that he made Draco lose his head at every turn. It was a natural reaction to sneer, smirk, and snarl at him no matter how old they were. The worst part was, Potter knew this, and he used it to his advantage whenever he could. 

Sometimes, it feels like he hasn’t got much of his sanity left and Potter’s dangling the little bit he does have in his face with his smirking. 

Every afternoon he goes to pick up Scorpius, Potter’s there, standing outside with his two kids and watching as children are sent safely to their parents. Draco watches with the gaze of a predator, hating his every breath before he exalts it. 

PTA meetings no longer are a chance to help improve his son’s Muggle school experience, no, they become a way for him to stare at Potter and wonder when his arse became so firm-looking. Must be from all that Auror training before he decided to high tail into the Muggle world.

Between the hate staring and the staring at his arse, Draco’s probably accumulated more than a dozen odd looks from parents and children. They never stare at Potter like that though. Even when he stares back at him. No, they don’t see the expression Potter reserved only for him, the one when his face tightened to a point that looks painful, eyes narrowing into slits, his mouth thinning like glass in distrust. 

It was during one of those face tightening, narrowed eyed staredowns they shared when Scorpius suggested the most ridiculous proposal. 

His son gives two tugs on his finely pressed shirt sleeve, nodding over to Potter’s glaring face. “Why don’t you try talking to him?”

Draco sputters, pulled out of his staring with Potter, and turns his attention on his beautifully naive, grey-eyed son. “Do what now?” 

Scorpius shrugs and kicks a passing rock with his toe. “I dunno, you always stare at him. And he always stares back.”

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Draco wondered when he should tell Scorpius just why in fact Harry Potter stares at him the way he does, and why Draco always stares back. He knows about the war, about Death Eaters, and that Draco and his family were on the ‘bad side’ of it, but that was the furthest he had gone in his explanation. Potter’s role was dragged out of him as well, since Scorpius wouldn’t stop pestering him with questions. He had only given him a surface level understanding of the war and why it was important for him to engage with and appreciate Muggles. 

“We have a history,” he replies simply, keeping his voice measured so that Scorpius wouldn’t be tempted to press him for more information. He doesn’t need to know that Draco tortured Potter throughout school and how it seems that Potter was finally deciding that now was a perfect time for payback. 

Potter’s still staring at him, though he’s doing his best to keep his attention on the children that are currently climbing on him. A smaller, red-haired girl that just screamed _Weasley_ , stops trying to pry at his trousers and raises her arms in a silent demand to be held. 

Draco begins to snort in amusement before remembering that this was Potter he was talking about. His Weasel spawn aren’t cute or adorable, no matter how similar they may act like his own son.

“Are you shy? ‘Cause I was shy when I met Al but then he turned out to be pretty cool.”

Draco laughs at the notion that he was ever shy in front of Potter. If nothing else, he’s grateful that Scorpius favors Astoria in temperament. Draco bets that if he tried making friends like he did in his first year, his experience at Brookington would be a lonely one. 

Scorpius puts his hands on his hips like his mother did when she was cross with him. “Are you laughing at me?” His tiny scowl is so adorable that Draco can’t help but to laugh once more. Perhaps there was a bit of him in there too.

They cross a busy interaction, leading them to the Apparition point behind an abandoned warehouse. Muggles zip past on foot, in cars, on those odd-looking contraptions with two wheels. Despite the whirlwind of energy and movement around him, Draco’s attention remained solely on his son. 

“Of course not Scorp. Don’t worry about Potter and me, some things are better left unsaid.” And in the past.

He yanks Scorpius near him when a young man nearly knocks him over as he flies by in one of those skating machines. He’s got half a mind to hex the idiot, but one elder lady scolds the rider loudly on his behalf. Draco hurriedly drags Scorpius along, wanting nothing more than to go back to the peaceful stillness of the wizarding world. Though he doesn’t hate them, Draco certainly hates how _loud_ Muggles were. Chaos followed them everywhere. 

Scorpius trills his tongue. “That sucks because Mr. Potter is really funny when you actually get to know him.”

Draco comes to a sudden halt. They were almost at the abandoned Apparition point but he can hardly believe his ears. “Get to know— when did you…?”

“It’s called _talking_ Dad. It’s not that hard. Plus, he’s my teacher so should I _not_ talk to him?”

Smartarse. That’s certainly a trait he got from Draco. 

“You think Potter’s funny?” He huffs and pinches the bridge of his nose lightly. If Scorpius didn’t look and occasionally act so much like him, he would seriously question if he was his father. “ _I’m_ funny. Potter is ridiculous.” More like a self-absorbed arse, as he eloquently told Pansy over tea last week.

Scorpius ponders this, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth in much the same fashion as Draco does. He comes to a conclusion by the time they reach the Apparition point. “No, you’re just mean. Grandma calls it being witty, but I think you just like being mean.”

Draco has to remember to control his body language and clear his mind of everything but the Manor when he Apparates them. They arrive in front of the pristine Manor with a loud crack though not even the general nausea from apparating can distract him from his returning thoughts. 

Him, _mean?_ Okay yes, maybe when he was younger and yes when he was drunk gossiping with Pansy, but in general? No, he was the furthest thing from mean!

He opens his mouth to argue but Scorpius beats him to it. “Remember what you called Mum’s new boyfriend?” Scorpius asks, sounding far too much like a chiding adult in this situation than he cared for. Draco shrugs as if he couldn’t remember what was said when in fact he remembered the exact time and place he rudely referred to Astoria’s new beau. “You called him a cock-eyed bastard.”

Draco made an alarmed sound, scaring the house-elf Tippy as she took their coats. She scampers away on frantic feet. “Don’t say that!”

“Why? Because it’s mean?” Scorpius snickers triumphantly as he skips onto the first steps of the staircase. That little… “You also said that it looked like he couldn’t get it up if you held it on a string but I don’t know what that means. But I heard enough to know that you can be mean.”

Covering a hand over his face, Draco groans shamefully. He really needed to watch his mouth around Scorpius, the sodding kid absorbed everything like a sponge. To end the conversation, he uses the oldest trick in the book of parenting: deflection.

“Well then since you seem to know everything go upstairs and do your homework.”

“I don’t _have_ any homework today,” he says a matter-of-factly.

Draco lowers his eyes. “Then make something up.” Scorpius pouts and he waves him off. “Go on, scram.” 

His son throws his head back into the air and sighs dramatically before stomping the winding staircase, each footstep vibrating throughout the room. Draco shakes his head. He was his mother’s problem now. 

Sighing, he heads over to the study to rest his eyes for several minutes before he has to return to work. He’s grateful that he had his mother to watch over Scorpius while he was stuck in his office all afternoon. Scorpius didn’t require much attention and he was fairly good at entertaining himself at this age, but it never sat right with Draco to leave him unattended for long periods of time. 

There’s a polite knock on the door right when he’s settling into his seat, a glass of Scotch hanging loosely from his hand. Cool blue eyes peer at him from behind the door. “Trouble in parenting?” His mother quips. The knowing smirk on her face looks out of place with the elegant finery she has on. 

He groans into his glass. “You could say that.” 

She smoothes back a lock of hair and tucks it delicately behind his ear. “What seems to be the problem this time?” As much as his mother loved teasing him for finally understanding what she went through all those years raising him, he was still a shameless mama’s boy. He nuzzles into her hand, sighing at the touch.

“Harry Potter,” he responses through gritted teeth. Just saying his name produces a schoolboyish sneer on his face. She gently brushes his cheek up and down with the smooth edge of her thumb, scratching the skin lightly with her manicured nail. “Apparently, Scorpius thinks he’s a real hoot.”

Her hand stills he waits for her to agree with him and offer advice on how to deal with his son’s sudden admiration for the Boy Wonder himself. 

She cups her cold, dainty hand under his chin, lifting it just enough so that their eyes meet. “Draco dear?”

“Hm?” 

She smiles sweetly. “Get over yourself.” 

Feeling like he’s just been punched in the gut, Draco hardly notices the kiss she plants on his cheek. She pats it twice before turning and calling after her grandson in a cheery tone.

Draco gapes like a fish out of water, disbelieving that his mother would rather side with Harry bloody Potter than her own son. Betrayal isn’t even an adequate word to describe how he feels.

“B-but Mum!”

His mother turns just before she reaches the door, a swish of sheer silver robes and teased blonde hair following her movements. She raises a brow, giving him the same chiding look she always did in his youth. If there was one thing Narcissa Malfoy hated most, it was a whiner. 

“You are 31 years old, Draco. I will not listen to another Potter rant at this age. Either decide what you want to do with him, or leave him be.”

Draco sinks into his chair, feeling no older than thirteen as he pouts angrily in his seat over Harry Potter. 

* * *

It was on the last day of August when Draco decided to be a better father than Harry Potter. 

His mother had told him to either do something about Potter or leave him be. So Draco, as the natural enemy of Harry Potter and hater of all people that hail from House Gryffindor, decided simply to best him in everything. That included beating him in ridiculous PTA events like the annual biscuit sale. 

From what he gathered in the last meeting, the rules were simple: whoever sold the most biscuits won the contest. 

There was some swanky prize for the child but Draco didn’t care about that, no, he cared about securing the bragging rights. Winning against Potter was a prize in and of itself. 

He absolutely could do it too, if Londoners weren’t complete arseholes that refused to slow their fast-paced walking to help out a very cute ten year old and an exhausted father.

“Biscuits! Buy biscuits!” A sharply dressed man with a briefcase and shiny leather shoes takes one look at the pair and crosses the street to avoid crossing paths with them. Draco wonders how long he would spend in Azkaban for sending a tickling hex to the soles of his posh shoes. 

And bloody fucking hell was it hot. Draco glares up at the Sun as if he could will it to dimmer with a few sour glares. A woman scurries out of the way when he frantically asks her to buy biscuits, clutching her plaid printed handbag to her chest. 

Draco scoffs. He had enough money in Gringotts to buy a small country. Granted it was Wizarding money but still! He doesn’t need whatever few crumpled notes she has stuffed away in her god ugly handbag. 

“This is useless,” he groans. “No one wants to buy anything.”

Potter’s ridiculous proposition to sell biscuits to raise money for the school has fallen flat on his face. No one wanted to buy the sodding things. Now he was in the middle of downtown London, sweating his bollocks off, and trying to convince people to buy a box of lemon and strawberry biscuits.

Scorpius bites his lip, unable to prevent the laughing grin from showing on his glistening face. “Well, if I could say it like it is… maybe it’s because you're being so aggressive about it?” Draco gasps, offended that his own child was mislabeling his Slytherin bred ambition as aggression. He was _not_ aggressive. He was hardly even raising his voice. “Look, this is you,” Scorpius holds a yellow box of the biscuits right under Draco’s nose. “Buy my biscuits! Buy them! Buy them now!”

Draco winces. People were beginning to stare at Scorpius’ little demonstration and giving Draco odd, narrow-eyed glances. He awkwardly smiles at them in an attempt to soothe their concerns, but it was a bit difficult easing the minds of nosy adults when a small child was screaming at you to buy some biscuits. 

Having enough, Draco places his hand over Scorpius’ mouth, effectively shushing him up. 

“Hush! People are staring!” Draco narrows his eyes in warning. Knowing Scorpius, his son is just enough of a nutter to start screaming that he was being kidnapped just to mess with him. 

Speaking of being kidnapped, he, like usual, has a bone to pick with Potter.

“Isn’t this dangerous anyway? Sending kids out onto the streets and asking strangers to buy food from them?” He swore that this had to be breaking at least three Muggle laws. “Potter’s trying to get tiny children kidnapped!”

Scorpius shrugs. “Did you know that he once rode a dragon Dad? Like, a real dragon?” He grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “That’s so cool! Have _you_ ever rode a dragon before?”

Draco grits his teeth. “No.” And he doesn’t want to hear about Potter’s Hogwarts adventures. One, because he doesn’t give a damn, and two because he wasn’t going to sit here and listen to his son idolize Harry fucking Potter.

He nods, humming as though he’s figured it all out and can deduct why Draco hated Potter so much. “Well, maybe that’s why you’re so scared. Mr. Potter rode a real _dragon,_ Dad!” He blows a raspberry, “Of course he isn’t worried about a little kidnapping.”

“I…” His son is being brainwashed right before his very eyes. “There are so many things wrong with what you just said that I don’t even know where to begin.” Needing to take his frustration out on something, he growls at the large pile of unbought biscuits, the things taunting him with their presence. “That utter bastard, making us sell biscuits— for what? It isn’t like biscuits is the only way to fund things!”

His son hides his laughter behind a box of lemon drop biscuits as Draco continues to rant, the heat and the situation picking at his nerves. His braid swishes violently behind him, mimicking his frustration in its own animated fashion.

He picks up a box of mint chocolate biscuits and shakes them angrily. “How can something be both mint _and_ chocolate? That makes no sense! Good Merlin and why is it so bloody hot?!” He pulls at the two loose strands of his hair, his frustration growing every passing second. “I swear if no one buys these things in the next second I’ll—”

“I’ll buy some.”

Draco instinctively reaches for Scorpius’ hand and pulls him close, only to realize that there was no danger, just a Gryffindor bastard and his spawn in his presence. 

Potter saunters up to them, Albus in tow with a wide, giddy smile aimed directly at Scorpius. Scorpius returns it, looking far happier than Draco’s seen him look in quite a long time. 

Was it reasonable to be jealous of a ten year old?

Letting go of Scorpius’ hand, Draco looks Potter up and down, his nose placed snobbishly in the air. Outside of the classroom, Potter looks as though he dresses himself in the dark. The arms of his rolled up sleeves are wrinkled and if he looks close enough, Draco thinks that he may be missing a gold button on his maroon shirt. There should be no reason why his child looks better put together than him. There was also no reason why he should be standing in front of him at the moment. “We’re good over here Potter, but thanks.”

Scorpius looks up at him, his brows flushed together in pondering. “But Dad, we haven’t sold a—” He grunts loudly in protest when Draco clasps a firm hand over his mouth. 

“Like I said, we’re fine,” sneers Draco. “So you and your offspring can scram, we don’t need your charity.”

Albus laughs. “You’re funny Mr. Malfoy!”

Draco cranes his head back. Did this kid not know how to take offense to anything? Not even a thousand shouting jarverys could sour his mood. 

“No charity eh?” One corner of Potter’s pink mouth inches higher and higher up his face. He nods towards their full cart. “So how many have you two sold?”

“Thirty-one,” Draco answers on command, trying to ignore that he was conveniently thirty-one years of age. “And you?”

Albus swings his arms in the air as he excitedly proclaims, “We sold all 100!”

Draco gives him a tight smile and doesn’t reach his eyes. “Wonderful.” Both Potter and Scorpius look as though they’re both barely containing their laughter. What do they say to each other in school? Knowing Potter he probably talks behind his back to his son all the time. God, he hates him.

“Well,” Potter stretches, the sleeves of his thin shirt hugging the mouthwatering muscles on his arms. Draco looks away. “Since you’re good over here, Al and I will be on our way. See you at the next PTA meeting Malfoy,” he nods politely Draco’s way then gives Scorpius a far more enthused wave. “Bye Scorp!”

Scorpius waves frantically in Potter and Albus’ direction. “Bye!” 

Stony faced, Draco humphs to himself. Whatever. He can sell 100 boxes of these sodding things and more. Potter shouldn’t look so smug, because when Draco puts his mind to something, he always sees it through. He and Scorpius were going to outsell Potter by the end of the day.

They don't. 

He ends up buying all 100 boxes of the biscuits himself, his stubbornness refusing to let a Potter best him in anything, even a ridiculous school sale. At least the boxes didn’t entirely go to waste though. Pansy was particularly grateful for Draco’s donation to her pregnancy craving list and took all 100 without complaint. 

The next week, Draco’s in the middle of his soon-to-be-rejected research presentation when he randomly wonders if he should have just sold it to her in the first place. He tells her this over tea and she laughs until her voice is hoarse, asking him what kind of Slytherin doesn’t think of using those closest to them to get what they want?

In hindsight, she was like usual, devastatingly right.

* * *

“… Show and Tell day for all students…”

Draco nods along, his head jerking upwards when he feels himself slipping away. Merlin, he was tired. He had exerted an exuberant amount of magic today trying to test his hypothesis about the efficiency of _Reparo_ during the Orionids Meteor Shower. The results were promising but tiring to obtain. On top of that, he had spent the previous night up with Scorpius to help him with his homework. He doesn’t know if it’s because he was a wizard or because of his own ignorance, but Muggle science was unimaginably difficult. How in the hell was Draco supposed to know the cycle of photosynthesis?

Potter’s voice is turning into a pleasant lull and Draco’s eyes are demanding to be cast into darkness. When he wakes up, Potter’s looming over him with a small smirk in an empty room. 

Draco’s never hurried out of a place so quickly in his entire life.

It’s several days later when the subject of the meeting is brought up again, and Draco wishes he had paid better attention.

From what he missed in the PTA meeting, it turns out that Show and Tell was an important affair, one that could beat the annual Ministry Gala in its significance. So it was only right to ensure that Scorpius brought the coolest, most interesting thing from home that wasn’t nailed down and tell a good story about it to the rest of the class.

However, seeing that most of the things in their home were either magical or unfamiliar to Muggle children, this was proving to be far more difficult than Draco originally thought. 

“Everything at the house is boring Dad,” Scorpius whines as Draco picks him up from school one dreary afternoon. “No one will care what I bring.” He turns to Albus. For some reason, the kid was stuck to Scorpius like a barnacle to a mermaid’s tail. As much as he wanted to leave and take Scorpius back to the Manor for his mother to watch, he doesn’t have the heart to leave the little twerp by himself while Potter was still leaving his class. He may be mean, but Draco wasn’t heartless. “What are you bringing?”

Albus shrugs his bookbag onto his shoulders, “I dunno. I’ll probably find something that morning to bring. It doesn’t matter because it’ll wow the pants off of everyone anyway.” 

He has to admit, sometimes Draco finds himself wishing to be as carefree as Potter’s kid.

Scorpius only pouts. “I’ll never find anything. Maybe I just shouldn’t do it.”

Draco scowls. “Hey, don’t you worry about that. We’ll find you something great to bring, you’ll see.” He bends down, making sure that he and Scorpius were at a similar eye level and cups his chin in his hand. “I promise Scorpius. You know I don’t break my promises.” It’s a dangerous thing to say to a child, especially a child who's been severely disappointed before, but Draco was willing to take a few risks for him.

Albus suddenly snaps his fingers. “Aha! I’ve got it!” Two blonde heads turn towards the bouncing child. “Scorpius, you should bring Mr. Malfoy!”

“Why would I do that?” Scorpius asked. Draco would love to know why as well.

“Because he can sing for us!” There was a ‘duh’ waiting to be released from his throat. 

Sing? Draco doesn’t sing. Well, he does and he’s been told that he can, but he doesn’t do it for anyone other than Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy. And then that’s only in the safety of their home. With the windows drawn. And with a very strong _Muffliato_ casted around them.

Draco clears his throat awkwardly, straightening his tie. What the hell was Scorpius telling this kid? “I can’t sing,” he lies. Albus puts his hands on his hips, looking thoroughly unconvinced. Merlin, who raised this child? Oh, right. “And I don’t think _people_ are appropriate to bring in for Show and Tell.” 

“Well that’s just stupid then,” he counters. “You’re from Scorpius’ home right? Then you should be able to be brought for Show and Tell just like anything else. My Dad told me that you can’t discriminate against people.”

He almost cries in relief when Potter appears with his youngest in tow. Albus had a weird way of making grown men nervous with his blunt outspokenness. Draco was used to his son’s softer voice and Charm School manners, not _that._

Scorpius ends up bringing a telescope from Draco’s study. It was by far the coolest object they had in the house and Draco took an hour casting protection charm after protection charm to keep anything from happening to it. Every astronomer needs a good telescope, and this one could beat out most of the competition. He had to be six feet under before he let a single grubby hand mess it up.

That night during dinner he asks, “Did everyone like the telescope you brought?” 

Scorpius sniffs out, “It was alright. No one believed me though when I told them about your job. They thought I was fibbing.”

Draco wrinkles his brow. That doesn’t sound good. “Why would they think that?”

He shrugs again, solemnly picking at his food with his fork. “I guess most children don’t have parents who are astronauts.”

Groaning, Draco buries his head in his hands, his spaghetti temporarily forgotten. “Oh good Merlin…Scorpius, I am an _astronomer_ , not an _astronaut_. An astronaut is someone who goes into space. I just look at space.” He won’t lie that he is a bit impressed that Scorpius knows what an astronaut is anyway. That’s mainly a Muggle thing.

“Oh, that makes sense,” he concedes. Suddenly, his face brightens considerably, forgetting completely about his Show and Tell mishap and about the noodles wrapped around his fork. “But Dad, you’ll never believe it, Al brought in his sister’s pink Pygmy Puff!”

Draco chokes on a noodle. “What?!” What was Potter thinking, he can’t just bring a magical animal around Muggles! Salazar, if Draco had done the same thing, he would be carted off to Azkaban without a trial. Potter must think because he was the ‘Savior’ he was immune to such treatment. He wouldn’t be too far off to think so either. He could probably break the Statute of Secrecy in the middle of traffic hour in downtown London and still be lauded by the press the next day. It was sickening. 

He doesn’t realize that Scorpius was still talking about that damned Puff. “It was so cute Dad, can I have one? Please?” He clasps his hands together, putting on his best puppy dog pout. Unfortunately for him, Draco doesn’t much like dogs or Pygmy Puffs. 

“You know I don’t like animals.”

“But she won’t _be_ an animal, she’ll be my best friend!”

She? Oh Merlin, the kid probably already had a name picked out for it since this afternoon. Damn Potter. He is a pest to their animal-free home. “I thought Albus Potter was your best friend?” _Please say no, please say no—_

“He is!” Scorpius amends, looking aghast that Draco would ever think differently. Draco fights back a throaty groan. He would have really considered buying the thing if he said no. “But I can have more than one best friend! Please, Dad? I promise I’ll take care of her!” 

“I said no and that’s final.”

It’s not final. That weekend, Scorpius is cuddled up with Princess, the very male purple Pygmy Puff with a very female name. He’s enamored with the small fuzzy creature and thanks Draco’s ears off afterward. And okay, maybe the thing isn’t that bad. But Draco would rather die before he admits that his heart melted just a tinsy bit when Princess licks his finger with his long tongue. 

He still doesn’t like animals. _That_ was final.

* * *

A foreign owl bangs against the window, ruffling its feathers out and scratching at the stainless window with its talons. Growling, he moves to grab the letter before the peckish creature damages his windows. He flips it a treat, grateful that it doesn’t demand for a written letter back. 

Pansy and Blaise’s owl was a gorgeous pure black hue, not white. His mother preferred to Floo him than deal with the birds. His eyes scan the stamped address at the bottom of the envelope. “North Sea?” His stomach drops. Azkaban. His father.

Shaky fingers tear carefully at the envelope, revealing thin, cheap paper inside.

_Draco,_

_I am sorely disappointed to hear of your divorce from your betrothed. You have disgraced this family with your incompetence. As you know by now, you have an imperative obligation to—_

He crumples the letter in his fist after the word obligation. In the years since he stood on trial, Draco’s come to detest that word. Obligation. He has an obligation to no one but Scorpius. Draco vividly remembers how his father used to hold that word over his head, used it to twist and bend him into doing unspeakable things, cause irreparable harm, damage his skin for a cause he groomed him for. 

Obligation his arse. 

If anyone was obligated to do anything, it was his father who hasn’t cared to respond to a single one of his letters in years. Not the ones Draco sent to him when he was a guideless youth still hoping to maintain some contact with him, not when he did as he was told and married Astoria, not even after Scorpius’ birth and Draco took the initiative to send him photos of his grandson each year of his birthday. 

But no, learning of his divorce from a marriage he arranged was too much for poor Lucius Malfoy to bear. So much so that after thirteen years, he decided to write him back a fucking note to shame him for his actions.

Draco decides to do right by him. Since he took so much time out of his very busy schedule in Azkaban to write Draco back, he decides not to _Incendio_ his letter immediately. No, instead he smoothes out the crumpled parchment and throws it in the fireplace, watching as the inked words fade to black, then ash, then nothing at all.

“How’s that for your bloody obligation Father?”

* * *

His father’s letter had left him on the edge of snapping all day. He wisely decides to stay away from the Ministry today, knowing that it won’t be pretty for Jaspers when Draco finally loses his composure and verbally tears him a new one. 

If anything, no one could say that Draco wasn’t merciful. 

He picks Scorpius up from school, ignoring Potter’s gaze from across the bicycle rack and above the sea of chattering children. He doesn’t have the patience for him today either. By weaving through the crowd of Londoners on his way to the Apparition point, he manages to Apparate them back into the house in under ten minutes. 

Anger has been simmering underneath his skin all day, waiting to be released, thumping hard in his pulse. Draco keeps it contained. Barely.

He feels it in the ridge movements of his fingers when he casts a spell, in his legs as he stomps up the stairs into his office, even in his braid, which had been swinging in twitchy whip-like motions all day.

Scorpius feels it too, noticeably staying away from him even though they both knew Draco would never snap at him. It’s only when he nervously asks to use the Floo to call Albus does he speak to him for the first time since they arrived home. 

He keeps his distance even as Draco sets up the Floo connection, staying several yards away from him and silently moving out of his way when he leaves to return to his office. 

Draco obsessively checks and rechecks the luminosity of the moon that evening, needing to put his energy into some sort of mental activity lest he go stir crazy and _Incendio_ everything in sight. 

There’s a bottle of wine calling his name downstairs and Draco was not above using a little bit of alcohol to ease his nerves. He tiptoes on quiet feet, trying his hardest not to disturb Scorpius during his Floo conversation. But curiosity grips him when he hears soft voices talk to each in harsh whispers and Albus’ voice is devoid of its usual giddy joyfulness.

“Tell him if it made you upset,” Albus says. “I’ll tell my dad if you want.”

Scorpius shakes his head. “I can’t. Then it’ll make _him_ upset.” He pauses. “And don’t tell your Dad either please? I don’t want to make him upset too. I always make things worse when I say things I should keep to myself.”

He feels his heart crack at the core. It wasn’t his fault for the divorce, yet Draco can never get him to understand that.

Albus says something that he can’t hear and Draco shifts a bit closer. He can’t use magic to get a better listen because Scorpius has always been oddly sensitive to magic and could feel it from a kilometer away.

“Al? Can I tell you something?”

“Anything.”

His thumbs twiddle nervously. “Sometimes my Dad gets nervous. Like, really, really nervous. I don’t know why but his hands will like, shake ‘nd stuff.” Scorpius lays his head on his hands, blowing a breath into the flames. “It’s weird. I never know what to do.” 

His throat goes dry. Draco knew that his son was privy to his weaker moments, but he didn’t know that it had affected him quite like this.

Albus nods, clinging onto every word Scorpius mutters. He may not always show it, but Draco was beginning to think that there may be some manners hidden underneath his boisterous antics. At the very least, the kid seemed to be a focused listener when his son was speaking. Draco can appreciate that, even if he can’t appreciate much of his other characteristics.

Albus waits several breaths after Scorpius finishes venting before saying, “My godbrother Teddy gets like that too before a full moon. Your dad looks at the moon, right? He should know then. Dad usually makes sure he has a big batch of wolf juice beforehand so he’s not so jumpy. Maybe he could try that?” 

Apparently, Draco needed to invest in Wolfsbane. Who would have known?

“Maybe,” Scorpius murmurs solemnly. He picks at the thick red rug beneath him, his feet swaying in the air. “He doesn’t think I know that there are some potions he’s supposed to take. Mum would get cross when he hid them in the cabinets.”

He doesn’t take the potions because he doesn’t _need_ the potions. If Draco can stand in front of a board of Ministry appointed officials seven times and handle being rejected seven times, he can handle a bit of anxiety. Astoria was wrong, like usual. Whatever fictitious mental illness the Mind Healer had diagnosed him with was clearly far off base. _Everyone_ has anxiety. He just has a bit more of it than others.

Draco dealt with the Dark Lord, slinking through his home, wilting everything in his presence with his dark magic. With nearly being burned alive and having his skin sliced open. Taking a potion would be like putting a tiny plaster on an open, festering wound. There was no point, so why try?

“I’d rather keep this to myself. He doesn’t need the extra stress.”

“Scorpius.”

Scorpius gasps, sitting up from his lying position and nearly crawling into the flames from fright. “Dad! What are you—”

“May we talk for a brief moment? You will be able to speak to Albus afterwards.” 

In a rare bout of unsureness, Albus bites his bottom lip and gives Draco a little wave. “Hi Mr. Malfoy.”

“Hello Albus.” He raises his brows at his son. “Scorpius?”

Scorpius deflates. “See ya later Al.” The flames turn orange again with a snap. Scorpius stands up, swaying nervously on his feet, standing in Draco’s looming shadow. “Yes Dad?”

Draco takes a seat on the plush velvet couch, patting the spot next to him as an indication to sit. He does, shuffling forward like he was a predator waiting to strike. 

Even when he’s seated, he’s about as stiff as a board, his hands tied behind his back. Draco sighs, deciding to dive straight in. “I suppose I ought to just say it like it is. I will admit that I didn’t have such a great day today, but it was absolutely not your fault. It never is. And I know you were having a private conversation between you and Albus, but I want to tell you, that if you ever feel like something is bothering you, you will always have my permission to speak freely. I will never hold it against you for being honest.” Scorpius nods numbly. “With that being said, may I see it?”

His eyes dart around the room. “See what?”

“Whatever it is you’re holding behind your back Scorpius.”

He wouldn’t be mad if it was simply a bad mark on his exam. School was always going to be a struggle and Scorpius was still learning Muggle culture like he was; if anything, he had grasped onto it far easier than Draco had. 

He sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth, anxiously rolling it around.

“Please?”

Scorpius squirms in his seat, pulling a crumpled paper from behind his back and handing it to him, looking away as he does.

Draco reads the paper, his eyes flashing and his jaw tightening with each word he reads. Potter was a dead man walking, that’s for sure. 

Seeing his reaction, Scorpius clings to his knee, “Please don’t make a big deal out of this?”

Draco scoffs. “When have I ever made a big deal out of something?” Scorpius fixes him with a withering look, then glances around their new, bare-walled house as if to prove his point. Pursing his lips, he folds the paper onto neat little squares, shoving it in his breast pocket for later. He holds his palms up. “Fine. I won’t make a big deal out of it.”

A ragged nailed pinky is held up to his face. “Promise?”

“I promise.” 

* * *

Draco throws open the door, uncaring about the violent _bang_ it produces when it smashes up against the neighboring wall. He had several bones to pick with Potter and he wanted his full attention when he plucked him bare.

Potter jumps, looking up from the papers on his desk with bewildered eyes that soften in relief when they lay on Draco. Big mistake. Those same eyes tense up again when Potter realizes that Draco was fuming.

Draco slams Scorpius’ homework down onto Potter’s desk. “Explain. Now.”

With ginger fingers, Potter carefully picks up the paper and eyes it. “It’s last night's homework,” he says, voice treading on the side of caution. “What’s the issue?”

Draco cracks, snatching the paper out of Potter’s hands and holding it in his face so close that his nose is touching the paper. “The _issue_ , arsehole, is this question right here.” He points to the second question that caused this entire mess, reading it in a loud, clear voice in case Potter is as deaf as he is stupid. “‘In your opinion, do you think that Frankenstein is a neglectful parent to the monster? Answer in complete sentences and give three examples from the text to prove your point. What do you think would constitute as a neglectful parent?’ Does this seem okay to you?”

Potter raises his hands passively. “Look, Malfoy, it was just a simple question to gauge reading comprehension. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal,” Draco spits, “Is that it is a ludicrous question! Why are you asking children these types of questions Potter?”

Potter shrugs, scratching his beard nervously. “Because it’s in my lesson plan?”

“Lesson plan my arse! It was completely tone deaf and Scorpius will not be answering it!”

Potter takes a long, deep breath, looking up at Draco as if encouraging him to do the same. It was pointless anyhow because when Draco Malfoy had something to say, someone was going to hear it. “Would you like me to owl you every one of my lesson plans so it can have your magical stamp of approval, then?”

“That would be delightful,” Draco hisses sarcastically. “Until then, I better not see another backward-arsed question like this on his homework again.” He holds up the tip of his wand, the end humming with barely contained magic. Potter wisely inches away from the charged end with dilated pupils, his back pressing as far as it will go in his leather seat. “Or else, Potter.”

Draco _Incendio’s_ the paper right in front of Potter’s face, watching with concealed glee as the paper turns to ash and falls in Potter’s lap.

He turns, slamming the door behind him with a swish of his robes. Several children and parents watch him leave with raised eyebrows and hidden giggles. His attire looked ominous, foreboding, and completely ridiculous around Muggles. 

So he makes sure to give his robes an extra swish, just because. 

Scorpius scampers up off the staircase outside, clinging onto his hand and looking up at Draco’s face with expectant nervousness. “So? How did it go?”

He takes that breath Potter subtly suggested, breathing in the smell of Autumn air, dying things, and the remnants of Harry Potter’s terrified soul that he held mere centimeters from his wand. Draco pats his son’s cheek with a smile. 

“It went well. It went very well Scorpius.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are much appreciated and loved :)


	3. Harvest Moon

Potter, like the sodding berk he was, actually does follow through in his promise, sending Draco a heavy stack of papers in an envelope titled ‘Lesson Plans’ every day via owl. Each paper has a small line at the bottom, asking for Draco’s magical signature of approval. 

So now, instead of reading his daily horoscope, Draco spends his mornings gazing over the papers and hurriedly signing them while trying not to spill his Earl Grey on the white pile.

It’s so bad that Draco actually _listens_ to Jaspers when he informs him of his daily horoscope. He doesn’t have to go in today, there’s no presentation needed to be done, but sometimes Draco likes to go and see what others are doing in the Astronomy field. Even if he was disbarred from contributing his research to the field, that doesn’t mean he couldn’t go and learn from others.

A small, squeaky witch is in the middle of presenting her brilliant research to the board about solar debris interacting with Jupiter’s orbit. She’s just getting to a good segment about how Jupiter’s moons are affected as well when a loud ringing sound emits from the pocket of his cloak. 

Shite. He regrets investing in the Muggle phone Blaise recommended as every person in the room stops and stares for the source of the buzzing. He fumbles the phone terribly, his shaking hands causing the thing to slide through his fingers and clatter against the floor. 

The entire board looks at him with various levels of resentment and annoyance. Stalls Windsor wiggles his whiskery beard, his mouth set into a thin line underneath. Vera Galatea sucks her teeth, tsking at his clumsiness and exchanging crossed looks with the other two disgruntled board members beside her. The witch presenting only looks at him, her wide-set brown eyes peeking out from underneath the fringe of her large afro. Her eyes dart nervously, unsure of whether to continue or just wait for him to shut the sodding thing up. 

“Draco. Draco. _Draaaaco_ ,” Jaspers whispers loudly in his ear. 

He snaps his head around and glares viciously at him. “Bloody— _what?!_ ”

Jaspers points at the phone buzzing away on the floor. “Your phone is ringing.”

One day, Draco will snap on Jace Jaspers. He’ll probably be placed in a cell next to his father for all eternity but sweet Merlin would it be worth it.

One of the board members clears her throat and gives him an impatient look. He’s still on his knees, scrambling for his buzzing phone on the floor. Draco gives them all apologetic smiles, grabbing his cloak and scampering out of the room as quickly as he can. 

“This better be good—Hello?” 

The voice on the other end is definitely not a random telemarketer. “Draco? It’s me Ana Lellory.”

Straightening up instantly, Draco shrugs on his cloak and hastily leaves out of the building before Jaspers comes back to tell him any more obvious truths. “Ana, yes how are you? Is Scorpius okay?” 

“Yes, yes, Scorpius is okay. It’s Albus that’s the issue.” He waits for her to continue. Sighing tiredly into the receiver she says, “He fell out of a tree during break time today.”

Draco doesn’t want to say that he doesn’t care whether Albus Potter falls out of a tree, but frankly, he really doesn’t care. He wasn’t the kid's sodding parent. What the fuck was he supposed to do about it? 

“Pardon me, but isn’t this something you should call Potter for over?” 

“I already have. I’m calling you because Scorpius was climbing in the tree beside him and he’s positive that it was him who pushed Al out of it.”

“What?!” No, that doesn’t sound like Scorpius at all. 

She sighs again. “He’s in the middle of a crying fit right now, I’m not asking you to drop everything and come—”

“I’ll be there.”

He gives her a hurried goodbye and shoves his phone in his pocket. He knows why Scorpius thinks he pushed him. Jaspers’ tarot cards went flying today in his face when he casted a simple spell on them, Galatea’s coffee scuffled away from her hands after she warmed it with a heating charm, even Draco had an unfortunate mishap with his hair with he tried to spell it back into his usual tight braid.

Harvest Moons were always a pain in the arse.

Five minutes after he gets off the phone with Ana, Draco’s walking towards the receptionist with determined steps.

“Nurse’s?”

Behind yet another book, the gravelly voice informs him, “Right, keep straight, right, left, third door.”

“Thanks.”

She doesn’t even grunt in response.

He follows her directions verbatim, though not needing to remember the last part when he hears loud crying from the third door down. He takes a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

“Draco!”

Coming up behind him, Ana looks as tired as he feels, her usually bright face dulled from exhaustion. “Thank goodness you’re here.” In her hands were several plasters with smiley faces on them, most likely for Albus. “Harry should be on his way soon.”

“Where is Pot—Harry?” His tongue feels disgustingly fuzzy speaking his given name. “Doesn’t he like work here or something?” Slacking on the job? How very unusual for the Golden Prat. 

Ana does a poor job of holding back the dejected sigh on her lips. “Oh, he’s actually out at the moment and has a supply for his class today.” Her shoulders slump and he wonders what she’s not telling him. “Such a shame…”

Not wanting to admit that he was insatiably curious to find out just what was a shame about Potter’s hairy arse not being here today, Draco bites his lips, keeping his wandering thoughts to himself as they reach the nurse’s room.

“Dad!” Scorpius runs over and clings to Draco the second he sees him walk through the door. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.”

Draco shushes him gently and guides him back over to the nurses’ bed. Ana works on bandaging the fairly small cuts on Albus’s arm as he watches the two with sharp green eyes. Hovering over his son’s weeping body, Draco notes that Albus Potter looked rather protective of Scorpius. It must run in the family. 

“I meant to thank you for coming on such short notice. Your timing is rather impressive.” She gives him a soft smile as she works, curiosity etched into the corners of it.

Right, he should have waited several minutes before storming into the school. Apparition was useful but drew unnecessary suspicion in the Muggle world.

He just shrugs, focusing all of his attention on his son. “I was in the area.”

Scorpius is still clinging to him and muttering apologizes which Potter shows up, his eyes focusing on Albus then Scorpius’s tear-stained face.

“Hello, Ana. Malfoy.” He nods in his direction respectfully. 

“Harry, thank you for coming,” Ana says. “You and Draco are quick on your feet for your children.”

Potter shrugs. “I was in the area.”

Looking at them both with gleaming eyes, Ana makes a funny sound, clearly wanting to press for more information. She turns to Scorpius when he conveniently increases the volume of his apologies to discontinue her prodding. Salazar, this boy was made for Slytherin. Draco holds him tighter. Ana rubs his back. “Oh sweetheart, it’s okay, these things happen sometimes.”

Scorpius buries his face into Draco’s shirt and continues crying softly. 

“I’m so sorry Al. I’m really sorry Mr. Potter,” Draco smoothed his hair down when his cries intensified, this time for real. “I’m just really, really sorry.”

Ana excuses herself and gives them several minutes to collect themselves. Potter places a large, tanned hand on Scorpius’ small back. “Hey champ, there’s no need to apologize. Accidents happen sometimes yeah? The important thing is that both of you are okay.”

Scorpius hiccups and sniffs several times. His little voice wavers as he explains that no, it was his fault because it was his magic that had accidentally pushed Albus out of the tree. From his garbled retelling, Draco pieces together what happened. Albus was going to fall regardless, but Scorpius must have panicked when he saw his friend starting to fall and his magic reacted as a result.

Draco feels his heart being crushed into pieces as Scorpius buries his face further into his chest, bawling. He hated when his son cried. He never stopped him from doing so, like his father always forced him to, but it always made him feel like he was failing. Since he divorced Astoria, each time Scorpius cried he was reminded of her last words before they left. 

_“You can’t raise him by yourself. In the Muggle world nonetheless? You would get eaten alive.”_

He couldn’t bear the possibility of her being right. 

“I should have controlled it,” babbles Scorpius into his shirt. “I didn’t know that would happen.”

Draco sighs, double checking that Ana was gone before casting a _Muffliato_ around them. “Scorp, that’s why you go to Hogwarts, to learn how to control your magic. No one expects you to have a firm grasp on it at this age. I certainly didn’t.” He cups his face in his hands and wipes his tears away with his thumbs. More soon follow to dampen his face.

_Oh Scorpius, this is hardly the worst thing you could have done._

Albus pipes in, “Yeah, remember when I accidentally turned Dad’s teeth blue before his class?” Scorpius nods into Draco’s shirt. Albus snickers deviantly, “Then I did it again on purpose.” Draco smirks when Potter regards him with a cross expression.

For a horrid little terror, Draco is beginning to think that the kid wasn’t half bad. Then again, he tends to like anyone who can get under Potter’s skin these days. His father scowls disapprovingly at him and sucks his teeth before turning his attention on a still sniffling Scorpius.

“I accidentally released a snake from its enclosure at a Muggle zoo,” Potter adds when he’s finished silently admonishing his son. “What you did was fairly tame in comparison.”

Scorpius nods numbly but tears continue to fall down his cheeks.

“It’s just simply not your fault son. There’s a Harvest Moon out, that’s all. Everyone’s emotions are out of balance at the moment and your magic simply reacted out of fear as a result. It also doesn’t help that there was a large supernova last night either.”

Simple astronomy and magical theory in his eyes. Potter and Albus looked bewildered by Draco’s straightforward assessment and he frowns at their puzzled expressions. Did they not know these things?

Albus steps up and places a chubby hand on his arm. “Come on Scorp, I’m fine, see?” He waves his plastered arms around for emphasis. “I’m not mad at you. I could never be mad at you.”

Draco sighs again. It was scary how much Scorpius was like him. He was stubborn and held onto things far too long. Just like him, he wore guilt like a second skin, causing him to overcompensate and over-apologize for every little mistake he made. Draco did that a lot with his father and then later with Astoria. And now it was a trait he unknowingly passed onto his son.

He kisses the top of his head, rocking him gently in his arms like a toddler. Scorpius always needed a lot of reassurance and Draco was more than willing to give it to him.

He finally looks up from his shirt, his huge grey eyes still swimming in tears. Draco’s stomach bottoms out when he correctly predicts the next word from his son’s trembling mouth. “Sing?”

Fuck.

Albus explodes in excitement and leans forward on the balls of his feet. “Yeah Mr. Malfoy, sing!” He pumps his tiny fists in the air, his tiny body nearly vibrating.

Potter puts a steady hand on his son’s bouncing shoulder before Draco can say anything. “Come on Al, let's give them some privacy.” He must see the startled look in Draco’s eyes and for once, decides to spare him the embarrassment.

Albus pouts, smacking his lips. “Oh come on Dad, Scorpius told me how great of a singer Mr. Malfoy is, can't we just stay for one minute?”

Draco’s mouth feels hollow like he’s suddenly misplaced his tongue. Fuck.

Potter lowers his gaze and his face hardens in a way Draco had never seen before. That must be a first. In the years he’s spent watching him, hating him, taunting him, Draco has probably seen every emotion cross his face. But not this one. This must be his parenting look.

It’s rather fascinating to watch, like witnessing the first moments before someone falls or observing the tense seconds before a fight between animals. He can’t tear his eyes away from it. How quickly he forgets that both he and Potter have more in common then they think. 

“Albus. I won’t say it again. Let's go.”

Draco shakes his head, managing to find his voice before the two are out of the door. “It’s fine Potter. You two can stay.” He looks down at Scorpius who was still crying softly. 

_Do you have any idea how much I love you? Enough to let Harry bloody Potter hear me sing this ridiculous song I know you love._

Children never seem to quite grasp the oceanic depth of a parent’s love.

Potter’s body relaxes in gratitude. _‘Thank you,’_ he mouthed. For all their differences, Draco understands. It was hard to deny your children’s requests. 

Albus skips back over to the nurse’s bed and watches him with unnervingly bright and awaiting eyes. Someone should really tell him that it was a bit unsettling to watch a person so intently as they gather their nerve to sing. 

He was hyper-aware of this additional audience as a wave of nerves fell over him. Damn Potter and his ridiculously adorable kid. Their matching green eyes stared at him eagerly, though Potter was trying and failing to hide his curiosity behind rapid blinking and the drumming of his fingers on his thigh.

“Pssst, Mr. Malfoy?” Albus whispers as if he was talking in the middle of a play to the stage actors. “Don’t forget the words.”

Draco nods, refusing to give in and smile at the odd little boy Potter produced. “Thanks. I won’t.” He's never going to live this down.

Scorpius’ grip on his shirt tightens and Draco looks down, remembering why he had agreed in the first place to do this. Familiar grey eyes look up at him, ready and needing to be comforted by the sound of his voice. He sighs. This was why.

Draco clears his throat.

He begins to sing about a moon painting over the sea and the wonders of miracles—quite a fitting song for an astronomer. It was Scorpius’ favorite song; a duet from a Muggle play Draco had taken him to see when they first moved to London.

In his efforts to expose him to Muggle culture, Scorpius fell in love with the song, which had a rather beautiful melody even if the lyrics were pretty silly towards the end in Draco’s opinion. But he forced himself to learn the words when he heard Scorpius humming it for several days after the play and it slowly became his favorite song as well. Given that he would go to the metaphysical ends of the universe to make his son happy, this was one thing he didn’t mind doing.

Scorpius smiles, prompting Draco to go on like it does in the song. They usually do it together, with both of them having memorized the entire song front to back. The male’s lyrics were silly, singing about free shampoo and eating shirts, but it always made Scorpius laugh and now it makes Albus chuckle. He honestly forgot that he and Potter were still in the room.

When he’s done, Scorpius’ breathing has calmed and though his eyes are red and puffy, the tears have stopped falling.

“Better?” Draco asks. He hardly hears Scorpius’ murmured yes over his friend’s cheering and loud applause. 

“Alright! Encore!” Albus whoops, disturbing the peaceful calm that had shrouded the room while he sang. This time, Draco has to smile. Children had no concept of tranquility _._

“ _No_ ,” Potter scolds. His voice is oddly raspy and his face is sporting the hint of a blush under his bearded face. Draco feels a bit put off by the sight. It wasn’t like Potter was the one singing for five minutes straight.

Draco snorts under his breath and gives Albus a secretive wink. “Later,” he promises. Potter’s face screws upwards. He may not have been able to beat him to the Snitch, but he could defy his authority as a parent. 

He presses a quick kiss on his son’s head and lays him down gently onto the bed, promising to return after he speaks with Ana. 

His teacher is at a loss for words, still boggled by why Scorpius would think that Albus falling is his fault. 

“I just don’t get it Draco. Everyone knows that he wouldn’t intentionally push Al out of that tree—”

He places a hand on her shoulder. Working with children all day must be exhausting. The people who voluntarily do it are truly one of a kind. Except for Potter, of course. He’s just a one-a-kind arsehole. “I talked to him, it was all a simple misunderstanding.”

After several more minutes of reassuring Ana that yes, Scorpius is fine, no there’s nothing going on at home, yes he’ll be at the next PTA meeting, and somewhat convincing her that a Harvest Moon actually can affect people’s emotions but without mentioning magic, of course, he finally gets her to join the other students back outside and he leaves to go back over to his son.

Potter’s outside the nurse's room, leaning up against the door and apparently waiting for Draco to return. Draco raises his eyebrows in a silent question, forcing himself not to stare too long as the way Potter’s biceps flex with his arms crossed.

“I think you’ve officially won Al’s heart.” 

His voice is gruff, and almost bitter-sounding but then those dimples flash again and Draco feels his stomach flip.

Draco hums, “Is that so?” He peers into the small window where Scorpius and Albus chatted amicably on the nursery bed. He’ll have to remember to make Scorpius go to the wash immediately once he returns home. Who knows what sort of germs were infested in that ratty old mattress? 

“Definitely,” Potter nods, a fond smile on his face, “He adores any kind of music. If he wasn’t as tone-deaf as Ginny and I am, I think he would rather be a singer than a wizard.”

He’s meant to laugh at the joke, but his wife’s name makes his stomach pull into tight little knots. 

Pushing aside thoughts of Weaselette and Potter laughing together as they horribly sing along to a song on a wireless, he manages a tiny, though bitter, smile. “He could take lessons. It’s how I learned anyhow.”

Potter makes a noise of amusement, his lips crumpling into a wry grin. “You took _singing lessons?_ Oh I wish I would have known that in school. Did you take ballet too?”

This time he really smiles; a large, toothy one. For a moment it feels like they are on even ground. The threat of a hurt child will do that to a person he supposes, even to two people who naturally loathe each other.

“Shove it, Potter. For whatever reason, Pureblood children were expected to be proficient in some aspect of music. I choose to sing and although she’ll deny it to the end of time, Pansy is quite excellent at the harp.” Looking back on it, Charm School was truly an odd place, even odder when he realizes that he hadn’t learned about fascinating subjects like Scorpius is now. Like photosynthesis.

He shakes his head. “Huh, interesting that Ron never mentioned that tradition. Maybe he has a few tricks up his sleeve that he could show Al.”

Draco bites his tongue, barely holding his callous comment about how only children of _respected_ Pureblood families were expected to partake in the odd tradition. He’s trying to do better to rid himself of his past prejudices, for his and Scorpius’ sake, but old habits die hard. They’re much more inclined to living, especially when it comes to Potter and his gang of Gryffindors. So instead he finds himself saying, “I could teach him.”

Potter’s face looks wonderfully surprised and he actually jumps a little in shock. “Malfoy you don’t have to I mean, geez Al is a great kid and all but Merlin his singing—”

Draco shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Get your knickers out its twist, it was just an offer. I think everyone has the capacity to change.” He wasn’t talking about singing anymore and from the way Potter was staring at him, he knew it too. Suddenly uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation he clears his throat and fiddles with the cuffs on his shirt sleeve.

“I charge a reasonable price and you know I have no interest in learning about the spectacularly boring life of Harry Potter.” He needs to insult him or else he’s sure he’ll just make a right fool out of himself.

Potter laughs, full-bellied and deep like his voice. _Someone’s balls have finally dropped,_ Draco thinks, before immediately regretting ever letting his mind verge on the path that led to thinking about Potter’s balls. The hallway suddenly feels warmer.

“And what’s your price?” Potter asks, looking as though he could be seriously considering it.

Draco shrugs. “Three chocolate frogs per hour.”

There was that laugh again. “You’re a menace,” he quips, lacking any bite at all in his tone. “And your teeth will fall out prematurely.”

Draco allows himself to smile, showing off all of his straight, white teeth. They were arguably his best feature, after his eyes and his hair and his cock of course. “You wish.”

“Quite the opposite, actually.”

Draco stills, his smile fading. This feels a lot like…flirting, actually. Not at all like their usual verbal sparring.

This was all types of wrong. Scorpius was enamored with Potter’s son and his teacher for Merlin’s sake, he couldn’t start having illicit thoughts about Potter now. He was freshly divorced and Potter was with the Weaselette—no _Ginevra—_ and Potter was straight and—

“Hey, Malfoy.” Draco flinches, not realizing Potter was speaking again. 

“What?” 

“I was just asking you a question. Don’t take this the wrong way but…” he scrubs a hand through his hair, his thick fingers musing up the dark strands into an attractive mess. He feels another strange tug in his stomach. “Compared to you, Scorpius reads to me as a bit… gosh, what’s the best word for it...”

“Sensitive,” Draco finishes for him coolly. He didn’t have all day to listen to Potter’s ramblings about his son’s secretly delicate nature—something that he was already acutely aware of. Perturbed, Potter’s eyes stay fixed on the gold buttons on Draco’s Muggle shirt rather than his face. 

“Yeah, that.”

He feels a heavy sigh rushing up his sternum. This was one of the things he was planning to speak with Scorpius’ teachers about soon, so he might as well tell Potter now. If the young Potter boy was going to be acting as his son’s best friend, then his father and teacher should be aware of it too.

“That’s because he is. Astoria and I never really got along very well, at least in Scorpius’ eyes. There was a time when I would consider her a partner, a friend even but that was before…” He stops himself. He wasn’t beholden to Potter. He certainly did not need to inform him of Astoria’s neglect of Scorpius. Nor did he have to tell him about her unfaithfulness while he allowed himself to suffer the pitfalls of being married to a person of the wrong gender. And he certainly didn’t need the added embarrassment of telling Potter that he was gay. 

Maybe not embarrassment. Because there was nothing to be embarrassed about per se. But he’d rather keep his preferences to himself, heterosexual or not. Potter doesn’t seem like the type to gossip but it was better to air on the side of caution.

“Before?” His voice is too light and Draco can hear the thread of trepidation needling it’s way in it. 

“Nothing.”

Potter eyes him, looked thoroughly irritated at his sudden lack of explanation. “You don’t have to pretend like you had the perfect marriage. Trust me, no one does. If you did I doubt you’ll be here right now.”

No longer was he interested in this weird game of friendliness they were playing. “Before nothing Potter. Maybe try minding your business, yeah?” He shifts away from him, trying to escape the warmth that drifts from Potter’s body. 

Potter holds his hands up in a calming gesture. “Sorry if I offended you. But it was just a question, Malfoy.”

It was a little ironic, given the fact that they were discussing how sensitive Scorpius was and now Potter was worried about offending him. He gives a low snort at the incredible irony. Like father like son he supposes. 

“I'm not easily offended.” 

_Especially not by the likes of you_ , he wants to add, but Scorpius’ bright laugh from inside the nurses’ room reminds him not to be short with the father of his new best friend. 

Potter shifts in place. Bloody fidgeter. “I can imagine.”

Draco leans up against the doorframe, listening to the gentle murmurs of childish conversation and the occasional laugh or two from Scorpius. 

Maybe it wasn’t Potter who was the problem. Or Albus. Maybe it was him and his desperation to cling onto the past despite his attempts to look towards the future. A bit of honesty is as good of a start as any. 

The Malfoy rule to say it like it is when necessary can be extended to Potter, but for only this one time.

He hears Potter’s breathing next to him when he says, “Scorpius blames himself for our separation. No matter how many times I try to explain to him that none of it was his fault, he just can’t seem to comprehend that when Astoria has made no effort to contact him since we left Paris.” 

The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth and he wishes it was tangible so that maybe he could spit it out or wash it away with a cup of hot tea. Instead, he’s forced to live with it. 

“So yes, Scorpius can be a bit touchy and yes he has a tendency to overcompensate for his mistakes no matter how insignificant they may be.” He rubs the center of his forehead with the heel of his hand. He was getting a migraine. And old. “But the important thing is to exercise patience with him. I suppose we’ll have to as well if these two persist on being best mates.”

He makes a passing gesture to the window, where Scorpius and Albus were playing a game of _Dragons and Werewolves_ by the looks of it. Starring Scorpius as the dragon of course.

Draco smiles faintly as he watches the picture perfect image of childhood innocence through the stained, unpolished glass. He wonders if that’s how he and Potter would have looked, had he not spoiled the chance of a possible friendship that first night at Hogwarts and continuously for the next seven years after that. Had Death Eaters and jealousy and bloody obligations not played a part in shaping his school experience.

He feels Potter’s breath warming his neck, the both of them pressed together near the window watching their sons play. From the corner of his eye, he notices the small mole at the juncture of his neck and two laugh lines permanently etched into the skin around his eyes. Potter’s gotten older. And bloody taller too, because since when was Harry Potter almost as tall as him? 

He pulls away before he fucks up and asks Potter to let him examine _all_ of him.

“As unlovely as this sudden meeting was, I do need to return to work. See to it that your son doesn’t fall from another high structure again.” Potter laughs, his breath fogging the glass of the window. 

“Will do Malfoy.” He turns, giving Draco a warm look. Something that feels suspiciously like endearment bubbles up into the center of his chest, unyielding and nagging. Stupid Potter and his stupidly green eyes. “See you at the next PTA meeting yeah?”

Draco doesn’t answer him, opening up the door to say goodbye to Scorpius. That next meeting was sure to be hell if his cock had anything to say about it. Which it usually does, since it’s been far too long since he’s last wanked and laughably long since he’s had a good shag. 

He gives Scorpius a soft kiss on the temple with a promise to see him at the end of the day. Potter watches him, his eyes heavy and narrowed in thought. Draco steps past him, ignoring the knowing smirk on his face. 

He nearly jumps out of his skin when Potter places a large hand on his shoulder and squeezes. Potter really needs to learn to keep his hands to himself, lest he elicits more strange stirrings in the pit of Draco’s stomach.

“You’re a good dad Malfoy. I’ll see you on Friday for the meeting, yeah?” He turns into the room to collect his pretend werewolf son before Draco could react to his unprecedented praise.

Stupid Potter. Stupid PTA. 

* * *

The next meeting is, in Draco's humble opinion, completely unnecessary. Potter’s grand idea to ‘better improve student-parent relations’ is to engage in a reading session every afternoon for those in something called ‘afterschool’. Draco watched with disbelieving eyes from his seat in the back of the room as Potter explained that they’ll be with five year olds. Five year olds!

While Draco focused on not throwing up in his mouth at the thought of being surrounded in a room with a bunch of drooling children, the other parents seemed far too enthused by the idea, even suggesting to break off into pairs to take a day each. 

And of course, who else does Draco get partnered with? Why Harry Potter himself, who is all grins and concealed smirks when he and Draco are 'randomly' assigned to take Thursday afternoons. 

Draco rubs his temples when Kacia comes to talk his head off about how _lucky_ he was to get Potter as his partner. He definitely needs the drink and fit bloke Pansy set him up with after this.

* * *

It’s times like this where Draco really, really wishes he were straight. 

He’ll give up his innate ability to pick out fancy dress robes and his excellent taste in décor if he didn’t have to deal with yet another bloke running away with his cock tucked between his legs when Draco mentions Scorpius. Every man he goes out with fled like he’s just seen a legion of boggarts coming his way at the mention of his son.

Men are pathetic. So was he, by default.

He supposes his date tonight was handsome enough, though Draco couldn’t quite get past the obviously bleached blonde hair, cut stylishly around his heart-shaped face. He looked far too much like a young, angry man that Draco once knew. Granted, though his own braided hair was now long enough to touch the curve of his waist, he wasn’t in the business for dating someone who looked like him, despite his family’s propensity for incest.

And he was _boring_. Merlin, was he a bore. What was Pansy thinking? Draco knew that his oddities and love for astronomy weren't the height of groundbreaking conversation but come on, even _he_ managed to sparse up a quality joke or two. This bloke looked as if he took it up the arse and had something else up there already. It was unbelievable that _this_ was the person he spent precious time agonizing over which shirt to wear and hoping that all sixty-two of Saturn’s moons were aligned for, just several hours ago. 

He guesses he should be thankful when he finally ended the date, merely five minutes after Draco recalled a funny situation with Scorpius and a pile of peacock feathers. His date had paled, his eyes glazing over and his already unattractively thin mouth setting into a thinner, terse line. 

He feigned an excuse about an early work shift and Disapparated without another word. The other patrons jump at the sound of the loud crack, glancing around the restaurant to find Draco, appalled and pale-faced, being publicly stood up in the middle of a date.

Draco hadn’t even remembered his name.

Once he was gone, Draco committed himself to not remembering his own name as well. The utter bastard conveniently left him to pay the tab, so nothing was beholding him to order one whiskey after another before finally throwing a cup full of galleons on the table and stumbling out of the ridiculously posh establishment, clenching an unfinished bottle of Firewhiskey in his hand. 

Oh, what joy Rita Skeeter and the Daily Prophet readers would have if they could see him now. He could just visualize the headline, _‘Dating Blues of A Death Eater: Draco Malfoy Drinks Himself Blind After Another Failed Attempt To Find A Man!’_

Draco laughs to himself, ignoring the bewildered stares of the several witches and wizards around him. He must look unhinged and smell like a bar. He wishes he had some gillyweed on him. Misery loves both company and alcohol. 

Draco doesn’t need a man. He’s never needed anyone but himself, so why should that change now? Besides, he’s got a perfectly good left hand. And a right one, though it doesn’t work as well as the left. 

He laughs some more at his internal joke. Merlin, _he_ was funny. And handsome and had real blonde hair, not that fake stuff. Plus, he wasn’t afraid of a bloke with a child. Why couldn’t he find someone?

He should stop feeling desperate. He knows he should. After all, nothing in the universe happens overnight. Except for like, supernovas. God, he knows this, yet he just can’t help but feel that his universe was inherently screwed up. Doesn’t he have the right to be mad?

Draco clings to the bottle of Firewhiskey he drunkenly nicked from the restaurant, keeping it close to his heart as he wandered around Diagon Alley. It always looked like Christmas around here, even though it was the middle of October and the air was still shimmering with the last tendrils of autumn’s warmth. The lights twinkled beautifully against the black night and he wonders why he ever chose to leave this place? Regardless of his former father-in-law’s demands and the well-deserved loathing he had accumulated from his past, Draco couldn’t think of anywhere he’d rather be but here. Diagon Alley was still as perfectly imperfect as it was in his youth.

Until it wasn’t.

“Oi, watch yer step blondie!” An old wizard with a hooked nose and startling blue eyes sneers at him, pushing him back forcefully after Draco accidentally bumps into him. He cuts his eyes at him and snarls again. “Bloody bastard.”

Draco stumbles, nearly falling down but catching onto a fortunately placed ledge before he knocks himself unconscious. He watches the man walk away, still muttering to himself about Draco’s clumsiness in a strange Irish lilt.

Ready to drag himself back to his home and sulk for the night, Draco stops short when the words _‘Death Eater scum’_ catches his ears. No, he wasn’t that person anymore, but he’ll be damned if another buggering fool adds on to the miserable night he was already having. He claws for the hawthorn wand strapped to his thigh, ready to show the sniveling git what scum he really was when a hand stops him.

Draco makes a sound mixed between a snarl and a yelp as the hand yanks him away from his wand with irrevocable swiftness. It latches tightly to his fingers and with reignited resolve, Draco readies himself to knock the prat out with his bare fist before hexing the first wizard.

“Who do you think you—”

He turns around and _of course,_ he staring into Harry Potter’s stupid green eyes. 

“Oh great, _The Savior_ is here,” he leers. He sways side to side as he eyes him. Weird. Potter doesn’t flinch at the title like he used to. “What heroic acts were you planning on committing now Auror Potter?” He spits out the words with acidic vitriol.

“You know I’m not an Auror,” Potter replies, his tone uncharacteristically frosty. If he didn’t know any better, which he probably didn’t in his inhibited state, he’d say that Potter bristles every time he mentioned Aurors. He’ll have to remember to mention them more often. “Bully for you it’s me, not them who's here to stop you from ruining your reputation and possibly getting sent to Azkaban. Aurors aren’t known for being quite so forgiving.” Matched with his humorlessly dry tone is a scathing bit of obnoxiousness that Draco had always hated about him. 

He had a lot to be mad about and a quarter of that stemmed from the man standing in front of him at the moment.

Draco rolls his eyes. He takes a healthy swig of his whiskey and glares at him. The darkness shrouds his face in foreboding shadows, making him look far more dangerous than he actually was. To him, Potter will always be that annoying little Gryffindor constantly showing him up as he parades around the castle with his stupid glasses and stupider scar. If he had claws he would take a gratifying swipe at Potter's face. Maybe do him a welcomed service and claw that horrifically ugly scar off.

“And you are?” Potter opens his mouth to respond but Draco drunkenly pushes his finger against his parted lips, not caring for a second how peculiar the action is and thinking only of the best way to get Potter to _shut up._ “Shhh. Ret–orical question,” he slurs. “I won’t get sent to Azkaban for simple Stinging Hex. All charges were dropped, _remember?_ ”

Potter should know. He got them dropped. Yet he doesn’t say anything, just flicks his finger off his mouth and stares at Draco like he was trying to decide best what to do with him.

“And stop actin’ like you’re my dad,” Draco rants, hiccuping violently as he speaks. “You’re _Albus’_ dad. Not mine.” He pokes Potter’s chest accusingly. He knows he probably reeks of Firewhiskey and unresolved horniness from tonight’s failed date. Maybe if Potter wasn’t so bloody noble he’ll take Draco back to his place and shag him silly.

Oh, but of course not. He’s _straight._ And _married._

The word married rings about in his mind, swirling and dizzying like a twirling teacup on a platter. _Married, married, married._ Wasn’t it just wonderful to be married? 

Draco takes another swing, savoring in the burn it produces in his throat and chest. He has the right to be mad. This was the product of the life his father envisioned for him twelve years ago.

“Well first, you’re like the only person on earth who calls him Albus.” Draco hums, uncaring about what the kid’s god awful name is when the world was swaying beneath him. He stares down at the black gravel below his feet. Either his eyes were playing tricks on him or he really was standing in the misty waves of a black ocean. “And second, you’re _Scorpius’_ dad. Speaking of him, where is he right now while you’re getting shitefaced?”

Draco pushes him away, even though his arms feel like noodles as he rams into Potter’s hard chest. “Don’t pretend you care about my son,” he spits. Stumbling away, he finds a nice spot on the ground to sit on, resting his head on what must be the cool glass of a shop window. 

Potter is on Draco’s tail, an arm positioned behind his body in case he takes a turn for the worst. It takes everything in his inebriated mind not to throw his leg out behind him and kick Potter away. “I’m not pretending, I do care about Scorpius,” his eyes flash, “And you, even though you’re a right prick to me most of the time.”

Draco hums again, sliding down the cool glass of a closed broom shop. He was going to have a wicked hangover in the morning if he didn't find a Hangover Potion. There was so much light coming from the shops around him, especially the ones who had taken to using glowing Muggle shop signs charmed into running on magic and not electricity.

“So I’ll ask you again; where is Scorpius?”

Draco’s face crumples into a sneer. Waiting for his answer, Potter looks down on him and he wishes that the sodding prat would just sit down so that he isn’t reduced to being loomed over by everyone’s favorite Gryffindor. Death is a better reality than being in a submissive position to Harry Potter.

Stray light from a small shop named _Cloaks For You_ illuminated the hard lines of Potter’s impassive face, contributing further to the feeling that he was his superior. The pink, glowing words _‘For You’_ reflects off on the smooth expanse of his forehead, dancing across the lightning bolt scar; taunting him.

Draco turns his stinging eyes away. Yes, there's a lot to be mad about.

“You think I’m irresponsible don’t you?” He hardly sounds threatening given how awfully he slurred the word ‘irresponsible’. But he had a point to make, slurring or not. “Scorpius is with Blaise and Pansy, thank you. I have some sense, y’know. He…” he sighs tiredly. “He doesn’t need to see this,” Draco mutters darkly, lifting the bottle of Firewhiskey to his lips again. 

He hardly ever drinks the stuff anymore; Firewhiskey was for kids and rightfully so. It was made to get someone as drunk as a skunk in two gulps. How he ever managed to consume so much of it in school that Pansy would joke that his blood was no longer pure was beyond him. In his humble opinion, smoking gillyweed was far better than downing a pint.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Potter snatches the bottle from Draco’s hand, ignoring his childish protests. He reaches for the bottle and Potter _Vanishes_ it without another word, his method of coping disappearing in thin air. “What’s wrong Draco?” 

Draco laughs. Hiccups. _Draco_. Like a dragon. Like the stars. His name was Draco, though he’d have never known it if he spent all his time around Potter. He leans back against the cool glass and hiccups once more. “So you do know my name?” He quips sardonically. He smiles lazily up at him, one arm strewn carelessly over his alcohol filled stomach and the cool glass soothing his buzzing thoughts. Potter’s voice was beginning to sound distant, hollow, like he was talking to him through a long tunnel. 

Potter’s brows come together. “What? Christ, forget it Malfoy, let’s just get you home.”

Home. He doesn’t want to go home. Home is empty and cold without Scorpius and Astoria there. Soon Scorpius would be heading to Hogwarts and where would he be? Home, in an empty, cold house with no art on its walls and lacking the footsteps of another person. Even the great, vast universe is filled with more life than Draco’s home at the moment.

He has a much better idea instead.

“No. Let’s get ice cream!”

Potter’s look is smoldering, even in the darkness. “Up Malfoy. Now.” Merlin, now he was using his parenting look on him like he was a child. 

When he doesn’t move, Potter takes it upon himself to heave Draco off the ground and onto his feet. Though when he tries to walk on his own, he nearly ends up falling flat on his face and into the gravel ocean below. 

“So I’m guessing that means you can’t walk,” Potter grunts. He’s having to grip Draco underneath his arms to keep him from taking a nosedive. Draco blows a raspberry at him, his braid feeling too heavy for his head. “And I can’t chance Apparating without getting you Splinched to death.” Sighing, he makes a single swooping motion and lifts Draco off the ground and onto his shoulder. Tomorrow, he’ll hex Potter’s bollocks off for carrying him like a damsel in distress. But for now, he’ll allow it. “Salazar,” Potter exclaims, “Do you even eat? You’re so light!” 

_‘And you’re so strong,'_ Draco internally purrs. So strong and so steady. He wasn’t drunk enough to not appreciate the straining muscles in Potter’s arms or the firm curve of his arse as he carried him. Or maybe he was just drunk enough to appreciate them without his typical side dish of remorse. Didn’t matter because he looked positively delectable, even as he was hanging upside down and strung across his back like a limp animal. 

Not-An-Auror Potter sure looks and feels like one, he surmised with a muffled laugh.

“Please don’t throw up on my back,” whimpers Potter. “I’ve had my fair share of that after three children.”

“No promises,” Draco quipped, though he knew that he had developed an unusually strong stomach from his Hogwarts years. But maybe he _should_ throw up on him. Just for fun.

“Are we getting ice cream?”

“No, you manchild. I’m taking your drunk arse home.”

“Please don’t,” his voice crackles pathetically and he wishes he had another swing of that Firewhiskey. Just a bit more alcohol to dull the things he doesn’t want to feel. “I don’t want to go back there. 'S too cold. Soon too empty.”

Potter slows his walking and Draco can sense him contemplating the consequences of his next words carefully. “Malfoy, I think you need to see somebody.”

Draco laughs into the soft cotton of Potter’s Muggle shirt, his drunken mind leading him to rub his lips along the fabric to feel it’s kitten fur softness. “But I have my left hand!”

And he could have him too if the universe allowed it. 

A weary sigh is exalted from the strong body carrying him. “Let’s just go back to my place.” He continues walking, not once letting his determined gait falter in lew of the confused and nosy glances from passing witches and wizards. 

He cranes his head up, his braid dangling in between his eyes. “The stars look better from this angle. Prettier.”

“Okay Draco.”

He doesn’t believe him but they really do. Strung across Potter’s back, he finds a new line of sight. This is the angle he wants to look at them every night, the right angle. Potter’s caught him, literally, in just the right place.

_Who can’t catch a man Rita Skeeter?_

“Take… that… Skeeter,” Draco mumbles incoherently. Dark spots color his peripheral vision, his world drifting away as he sways against Potter’s strong back. 

“And take that… _Astoria_.”

* * *

Sunlight burns Draco’s eyes and he fruitlessly places a hand over them to block it out. Everything hurt. His ribs, his chest, for some odd reason even his arse though he’s certain it hurts from sitting in that uncomfortable restaurant chair and not because he was lucky enough to get any last night. His temples were throbbing and his body ached as if it realized that it was 31 years old and not 21. 

Groaning, he slowly opens his sleep-filled eyes, knowing that he’ll have to sooner or later. 

He should have kept them closed. Because he was _not_ in his own home. His walls weren’t light blue, they were cream. And his bed smelled like the vanilla wash he used, not like Potter’s woodsy scented cologne.

_Oh fuck._

Draco sits up straight like an arrow, his migraine pounding from the sudden movements but somehow that seemed insignificant to the real issue at hand.

He wasn’t home. He was in Harry Potter’s house. Sleeping in Harry Potter’s bed.

Heart pounding, he scrambles out of the bed as if the very sheets were poison and falls flat on his already sore arse in an attempt to distance himself from the undeniable truth that he was very literally surrounded by. He slept in Potter’s bed, he smelled like Potter, and from the looks of it, he even drooled a little (or a lot) on Potter’s soft white pillowcase.

“What the hell?” He whispers, his hand tugging at the ends of his frizzy braid. Sheer curiosity and panic lead him to sniff his underarm and he winces. A confusing mixture of stale Firewhiskey, earth scented cologne, and vanilla evades his senses. What on earth was wrong with him?

“Oi, Malfoy are you up?” Potter’s voice booms from outside of the door and Draco nearly falls again from fright. Merlin, does he have to be so _loud_ all the time? It’s so dreadfully obvious the man was raised by Muggles.

“Um… no. I mean yes! Yes, I’m up.”

“Are you decent?”

Fuck, he looks down at his wrinkled clothes. He’s thankful that Potter at least had the good grace to not strip him down to his pants last night. Though they smelled sour and he could definitely use a good bath, there was no way he was taking a shower _naked_ in Potter’s bathroom. 

“Don’t!” He panicked. Then pauses, realizing that he was very rudely commanding Potter to not come into his own room. Or guest room, he supposes. Draco rubs his forehead. This was just getting worse and worse by the second. “No, just uh, just hold on a second. Please.” He trips over his feet to grab his wand that was laid carefully on the bedside table, right next to a vial of Hangover Potion Potter must have left for him. 

Potter snickers behind the door as the loud thud of Draco’s hazardously clumsy footfalls echoes around the room.

“Take your time. I’ll be downstairs making us some tea. How do you take it?”

Draco rubs his temples, trying to remember the various grooming spells to make him look halfway decent. One thorough body cleansing and mouth freshening charm later he answers, “It doesn’t matter.” It does matter, but he wouldn’t dare be picky after… _everything_. 

“Speak now or forever hold your peace,” he trills.

A piping hot cup of Earl Grey tea did sound delightful. It was his and Scorpius’ favor—

“Scorpius!”

Draco yanks the door open and Potter’s alarmed face is staring back at him, his glasses slightly askew but looking much more well-rested for a man who just let his sworn childhood enemy sleep in his home. In comparison, he must look like a stray crup with a severe alcohol problem. 

Must he always one-up him? 

“I need— I need to speak with—”

Potter places a self assured hand on Draco’s shoulder. Warm and steady, just like his strong, Not-An-Auror body last night. Draco flushes. “Easy, Scorpius is fine. You left him with Blaise and Pansy remember? I Flooed them this morning because I knew you would ask. And by the way, I’m not so sure you should casually keep the Floo coordinates of other people on your person. Though I guess it worked out in your favor this time…” 

Draco shakes his head frantically, not caring about Potter’s ramblings on his very responsible adult habits. “No, no I need to see him for myself! I need to make sure—” he’s shaking now, his hands finding their way back into his ruffled hair. 

What has he done? Getting drunk out of his mind like that? Scorpius could be anywhere, he was so tiny and vulnerable; he could have found a portkey and be halfway across the world right now, or ventured out into Muggle London by himself or—

“C’mon, we’ll go Floo them so you can see. I promise you he’s fine.” Potter calmly leads him down the stairs, his arm never leaving Draco’s shaking shoulder as they walk. 

He’s nearly crawling out of his skin by the time Blaise’s face comes into view.

“Potter.” Blaise’s voice is gruff with disinterest. “You’re calling, again.” His dim expression comically brightens when he sees Draco. “Draco! Hey, you need to talk to Scorp?”

Draco nods frantically. Breathe. Don’t vomit. He’s fine. Potter’s cologne is nice. Breathe.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, I just need to see Scorpius, Blaise.” And after a moment he adds, “Please.”

“Scorpius!” Blaise yells in a deep baritone voice behind him. Draco winces. He should have taken that potion. “Your overprotective father wants to see you!”

Draco hears the little pidder patter of tiny feet and his heart melts in relief. Scorpius was soon standing in front of the fireplace, his pale cheeks flushed from exertion. He looks clean, alive, and wonderfully taken care of. 

He waves at Draco, his little smile remelting his heart. “Hi Dad! Is everything okay?” He’s clutching the green stuffed dragon Draco once had as a kid in his arms, the head of it pressed close to his cheek.

Draco shakes his head, feeling slightly silly for his panicking but all the more relieved to know that he was fine. “No, everything’s alright Scorp. I was just checking on you—”

Scorpius squeals suddenly and a heavily pregnant Pansy steps into view, tickling Scorpius on his belly.

“I’ve got you now you little twerp!” She roars. Scorpius squeals some more, throwing the dragon on the floor as he tries his best to scramble away from her.

Blaise rolls his eyes. “Her hormones are all over the place. I didn’t know it was possible to get baby fever when you were already pregnant.”

Draco smiles faintly. “Scorpius has charms that are hard to resist.”

“I know that’s right; Merlin, Draco, I love this kid!” She punctuates each word with a kiss on Scorpius’ head. Pansy stops tickling him to smush his cheeks, causing him to grin wildly. He’s never received much female attention, so Pansy’s doting should be good for him. “I could just eat you up like a crumb cake!”

“Please don’t,” Blaise groans. He turns to Draco. “Yeah, her hormones are totally shot and your ridiculously adorable kid isn’t helping.” 

“I heard that!”

“I know you did!”

Draco sighs, a wave of nausea hitting him from nowhere. He really, really should have taken that potion. “Well I’m glad you three are having fun. I’ll Floo over to get him in an hour.”

“Don’t bother, he’s staying with us forever!” He hears Scorpius’ shrieking laughter as Pansy begins to tickle him again. “Who knew Draco would produce someone this cute!”

He really needs to take his head out of the Floo, because after seeing Pansy be so good to his son, he realizes that it wasn’t nausea he was feeling. 

“Seriously Draco, are you okay there?” Blaise asks again. His face is marked with a serious bout of concern for merely a second before morphing into an upturned smile. “You’re looking a little _green_.”

Draco nods, too sick to give in to the urge to roll his eyes at the pun. Dad jokes. The one thing he was proud of not mastering. “I’m fine. I’ll see you in an hour.” He calls out a goodbye to Scorpius though he doubts he heard it running away from a waddling Pansy. 

When he pulls his head out of the fireplace, Potter is watching him, his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. He did not need this right now. 

A ball of tension wells up in his chest, and Draco can sense what’s about to happen from the way his left eye twitches and a rush of heat floods his nose. His nerves are hot, as his mother would call it, sending prickly pockets of pain to his hands and feet. 

_Not now. Not in front of Potter._

“See?” Potter gloats. Draco’s nails dig into the fabric of his trousers. “I told you he’s fine. You need to have a bit of faith in me. I mean first I pick you up off the street like a stray and now you—Malfoy? Malfoy?”

Although his words were teasing and he didn’t mean any harm by admitting the _truth,_ Draco’s face finds itself buried into his hands. He cracks and that wave of nausea hits him full force as a stream of tears, not vomit. 

He really, really wishes he could have just vomited instead.

Potter shuffles to the ground beside him, one arm slung over his shoulder. There was no way he could keep his dignity intact now. Not when he was having a crying fit in Harry Potter’s living room. 

Potter lets him cry himself hoarse and Draco’s grateful, knowing that it was best to let these things run their course instead of fighting it.

It feels like forever before his tears begin to taper off and his body no longer feels like it’s constricting itself. Refusing to look up, he keeps his eyes focused on his pale hands, still shaking awfully in his lap. On the scuffed hardwood beneath him. On the small puddle of his fallen tears on the hardwood. On literally anywhere but Potter’s face. 

Alcohol is such a dangerous thing.

So is excessive amounts of anxiety. 

Potter’s voice is in his ear and he can feel his own anxiety-ridden breath ghosting along the skin of his neck. “Malfoy, what’s wrong? Was it something I said? I was just joking about the stray thing you know; I should have never said that, even though it’s a little true. Fuck! Sorry again. Sometimes words just aren’t… yeah.” 

Exhausted, Draco looks at him with puffy eyes and a red face. He was openly crying and yet Potter’s face is still more expressive than anyone he knows. It was like reading a book: Harry Potter and the Not-So-Subtle Expressions He Makes.

Once again, Potter was genuinely terrified of offending him. That must be a new world record. 

In a voice thick with tears he asks, “Are you done?”

A slow shrug. “Almost. Did I say I was sorry?”

Draco thins his lips in a promising attempt to keep from smiling at Potter’s… oddness. “Don’t worry about it Potter,” he says tiredly. His knees hurt from being on the floor for too long and he shifts down to lay on his bottom, drawing his legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms around himself like he always does when he finds himself having the desire to be small. “I just worry about Scorpius is all. And about...things.”

Things that are far from Potter’s concern or ability to fix. Things that have happened and whose memories are stuck with Draco indefinitely. Potter studies him for such a long time, he begins to feel uncomfortable under his gaze. “You worry… about your abilities as a father?”

Draco’s swollen eyes fly open. Maybe he too was just as easy to read. 

“You would be correct.” He looks down onto his knees, his ears burning with shame. “I’m certainly not the world’s best father nor am I close to being one. I just keep failing. And I don’t know why and I don’t know how _not_ to fail with him.” 

Tears threaten to spill over onto his hands again but he forces them back, his bitten lip aching from effort. Potter places a comforting hand on his ankle and the words fall out of his mouth, snowballing into an avalanche of his insecurities. 

“I try to do right by him but nothing I do can make up for how much I’ve messed up. Malfoys aren’t supposed to get divorced. I am. Now Scorpius thinks it's his fault and he misses his mother and I miss her too even though I shouldn’t and I just don’t _know_.”

He wipes his face. “Every time I take my eyes off of him, there’s a risk that it could…” His breath hitches, “it could happen again.” Not wanting to explain his fears, he squeezes his eyes shut and buries his face back into the safety of his palms. “You can say it. I’m an awful excuse for a father and I know I am.”

There’s silence as his words settle between them and Draco settles with the knowledge that he just explained his greatest source of anxiety to the person who must be the greatest prat of all. 

Then a contemptuous snort. “Well that’s just stupid.”

Draco rears his head back in shock. “What?” Why wasn’t he agreeing with him? Why wasn’t he berating him for leaving his son at his friends’ house and stumbling around Diagon Alley pissed out of his mind?

“I don’t remember you being this much a slow learner in school Malfoy. Is it possible that you need your ears checked? I’m fairly certain you heard me right.” That smug, bastardly grin appears on his face again as Draco gapes. “You’re an _excellent_ father. From what I can see, you’re taking care of him without any help from his mother, you’re putting a conscious effort to ensure that he doesn’t grow up with the same biases as you, and not to mention, you _responsibly_ left him in the care of two adults you trust before getting foxed. I’d say that you’re a better father than you’re giving yourself credit for.”

“W-what? But I don’t understand? How—”

Potter cuts him off. “You do,” his voice is firm. “I’ve told you that you were before; what did you think I was telling you that for my health?” Draco finds himself believing it, despite his better judgment. Because it is, in fact, the second time Potter had said that he was a good father and because it’s truthfully the second time _anyone_ has paid him such a genuine compliment. “You nearly chewed my head off two weeks ago and have you noticed that you’re the only parent who consistently attends the PTA meetings?”

No, he hasn’t noticed. Mainly because he was too focused on glaring or trying to best Potter. 

“Now get your arse up and stop feeling like a failure. You’re a good father Malfoy, carry yourself like one. Trust me, the kicked puppy attitude isn’t a good look on you.”

His upper lip involuntarily curls; he can hardly believe it. Was _this_ how Potter gave prep-talks? Merlin, he already knew this, but Gryffindors really did have no sense of tact about them.

“You’re… ugh, you’re such a bloody…” he pauses, unable to think of the proper word to describe him. The first word in his mind rushes out without his consent. “ _Meanie!_ ”

He seethes quietly to himself as Potter howls in laughter at his less than cutting comeback. As if this couldn't get any fucking worse than it already was. Draco subsequently vows to spend more time with actual adults once Scorpius goes off to school. Preferably adults who were given the good fortune of being sorted into Slytherin.

Potter wipes several tears from his eyes, his body doubled over and nearly choking on his laughter. It would serve him right to choke. “This is brilliant! I thought you had it bad last night when you begged me for ice cream and gillyweed but this is perfect!” 

“Ice cream?” Fuck, he’s never touching Firewhiskey again. From now on, his only escape from reality will be through smoking gillyweed. 

Potter lifts himself off the ground, still laughing his tits off. He extends a hand to Draco. “C’mon Malfoy, I’ll get breakfast cooking.”

This is where he draws the line. His already pristinely posh accent turns sharper, crisper as he attempts to formally decline Potter’s request. “Oh no, I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“It’s an order, not a request.”

Well alright then.

Draco takes his hand in his, trying not to think about the firm calluses that were scattered over Potter’s hand and how good the rough skin would feel against places other than his palm. Or that he was letting this bullheaded Gryffindor prat boss him around so early in the morning. 

“Don’t be a meanie, Potter,” he says with as much snark as he can muster. The day has barely started and he already feels drained. A brutal hangover, panicking, a bit of crying, and now a healthy dose of reignited horniness. Was there no end to his suffering? 

Potter gives him an unexpectedly blinding smile. When did he own that? “Take it from me, kids are a disease,” he laughs knowingly, shaking his head an amused sort of disbelief. 

“Vermin,” Draco corrects. “Pesky, nasty little buggers.” He gives in and smiles back, losing himself in memorizing the tiny freckles scattered across Potter’s nose when he remembers that his hand was still in his, still warm and pulsing under his fingers. It hardly felt unnatural. 

But he takes his hand away as a formality. Potter had stopped him from passing out in the middle of Diagon Alley, had given him a bed to sleep in, and now was going to cook him breakfast. It wouldn’t look too good on him if he made a move now.

Besides, it would look even worse on Scorpius given that he would be hitting on his teacher and his best friend’s married father.

Oh shite. 

Draco backs away, a new breed of panic rising up his throat. “Where are your kids and Ginevra?”

“Out. On Saturday’s Ginny takes them to her Quidditch game so they won’t be back until later. Sit.” He motions to the table before them.

How can he be so calm, bringing a strange man into the home where his kids and wife lived? Perhaps after nearly twenty years of knowing each other, he wouldn’t be classified as strange but Draco knew he was unwelcomed all the same. Draco, for one, couldn’t stop thinking about how he was possibly sitting in the same chair Ginevra sat in during their family meals. Drinking tea out of the mug she used. Eating food that she possibly brought. 

He was a bad, bad person.

“You look like you’re about to detonate.”

Draco frowns. “Is that some sort of Muggle saying?” If so he’ll have to add that to one of his multitude of lists. Perhaps he’ll make a new one titled Muggle Sayings and Phrases. That’ll go nicely on his wall.

Potter snorts and he begins to whisk some yellow, slippery-looking sludge in a bowl. He won’t ask, namely because it’s humiliating, but he’s about ninety percent sure that that’s what eggs look like before they’re cooked.

“No. But if it was, it’ll fit the terrified expression on your face.” 

“Spectacular,” Draco deadpanned. 

He tries and fails not to watch with poorly concealed curiosity as Potter cooks them breakfast. He would have tried to watch whether it was Potter cooking or not. How anybody can create something edible from virtual nothingness will never not baffle him. It was a skill that he had undermined when he had house-elves, and certainly one he never thought he would ever bother learning.

His strong hands stir, mix, whisk the contents with such precision that Draco’s fairly confident that the resulting food will be far better than anything he could produce. Though it would be fairly easy for almost anyone to best him in culinary skillfulness.

Of all things, Draco’s entranced by the way his fingers move, oddly elegant and sure inside the kitchen. He fidgets a lot, Draco’s noticed, his fingers usually moving erratically about in the air as if he didn’t know just quite what to do with them. But he knows exactly what to do with them in here, his hands moving with practiced confidence around the kitchen. 

He methodically stirs his tea over and over again, just watching Potter’s hands move as he cooks. Potter catches him staring and gestures to the array of cooking tools and ingredients littered across his counter. “Want to help?”

He winces, pulled out the spell Potter and his firm looking hands have put him under. “Oh no. I would but I can’t. I’d reckon you wouldn’t want my help anyway, seeing that I’m a dead disaster making anything that isn’t spaghetti.”

He laughs and Draco flushes a little. A nice laugh to match his equally nice voice. Gulping down the piping hot tea Potter shoved into his hands the moment he sat down, he makes a valiantly conscious effort to not think about Potter’s bollocks while sitting at his kitchen table. Though with the muscles in his back stretching as he reaches up to grab a bit of flour from a high shelf, he finds it impossible not to think of it. 

He deserves the scathing pain from the tea.

When the last of Potter’s laughter fades out, they remain in surprisingly pleasant silence, only the sizzling of delicious smelling bacon, the clacking of metal on metal, and the odd whistle from cooking food disrupting it. Small, insignificant sounds that Draco doesn’t have back in his own home. At 31 years old, Draco has to admit that until now, he’s never sat in the kitchen while food was being prepared. He wishes he did. 

Once at the Black home, that old bugger Kreacher scared the living daylights out of him when his five year old curiosity led him to wander into the kitchen. He’d gotten both a screechy bit of screaming from Kreacher and a long talk from his parents to not go poking around in areas designated for subordinate creatures like house-elves. He idly wonders if Kreacher was still alive. Potter probably has him holed up in the lap of luxury at this very moment and he doesn’t mind not one bit. He is much better company than a sour old house elf.

Given the circumstances, this was the most peaceful Saturday morning he’s had in a very long time. Potter isn’t bad company when he wants to be.

Unfortunately, his peace is interrupted when Potter’s insistent nosiness and inability to maintain a quiet atmosphere for more than five minutes at a time wins out. He hums quietly to himself and even though he hardly opens his mouth, Draco could sense he was wildly off-key to whatever song he was humming. He wasn’t kidding about being tone deaf. Draco hates himself a little more for finding his inability to carry a tune supremely endearing.

“So, last night.” He roughly clears his throat and glances over at Draco. Draco raises an eyebrow, already frowning in faux displeasure from the humming and from the question he knew Potter was attempting to hint to. _Spit it out Potter, I know you want to ask._ “Can I ask why?”

“Why what?” Draco asks innocently. If he was going to ask personal questions he should have the good grace to ask them properly. 

He shrugs. “Maybe what had gotten you in such a foul mood that you resorted to stumbling around Diagon Alley pissed and ready to hex off strange men’s bollocks? Skeeter is always looking for a juicy story you know.”

The cooking food smells delicious but Draco still twists his nose in distaste at the mention of the pesky Animagus. “That sodding hag still making the lives of witches and wizards miserable?” He didn't think that she _actually_ was still in business. He’d thought a heroic anti-vigilant would have squashed her by now.

Ironically enough, that anti-vigilant looks a lot like Hermione Granger in his head.

Potter flips what appears to be a pancake in the air with practiced ease. Showoff. “She never seemed to stop,” he mutters bitterly. “Which is all the more reason to be careful.” He levitates a plate of dry toast over to Draco. “To hold you off. I can hear your stomach growling all the way from here.” Draco rubs at the pink tinge forming on his face. He hadn’t noticed his stomach was so loud.

“Uh, thanks,” he says, his manners keeping him from making a move to eat the toast. “And if you must know, I was just out on a date. A rather forgetful one if I do say so myself.” He scowls at the toast when a pre-drunk memory of the boring bleached blonde whose name still hasn’t occurred to him infiltrates his mind.

“A hot date eh? What was she like?”

Draco almost laughs. _She?_

Then he remembers. Right, Potter doesn’t know that he’s about as straight as gravitational waves.

“Er…” Shite, how did straight blokes talk about women again? He should know this, he acted as one for twelve years. _Come on, think of something Draco._ He tries, but everything he can think of is exceedingly stereotypical, textbook sexism, or would be just plain absurd coming out of his mouth.

He stuffs his face with the dry piece of toast, uncaring about how uncouth it looks. “Let’s maybe not talk about it.” _Please, because I’m a raging homosexual who doesn’t know shite about women._

Potter studies him for a quiet moment before conceding to his plea. “Alright. Just know that you ever find yourself in a bind, you don’t have to suffer alone. I’ve had my fair share of sour dates.”

Draco resists the urge to roll his eyes. He was married to the same woman he shagged in school for Merlin sake, what did he know about dating with a child? Better yet, what did he know about dating blokes with a kid? Not shite, he assumed. He wasn’t so desperate that he was willing to chat up a bloke who married his Hogwarts sweetheart.

Even if he and the— _Ginevra—_ divorced, he still would have a line stretching to Italy of people who want a chance to date The Savior, three kids or not. The thought sickens him because he knows he’d be at the very front of that line.

Potter spares him from responding to attend to the food. Draco’s stomach makes an embarrassingly loud sound when he smells the delicious scented breakfast and Potter laughs that charmingly masculine laugh again.

“Someone’s hungry,” he notes with a quirked smile.

“ _Someone_ only has alcohol in their system. So of course they’re hungry.”

He catches sight of the now fully cooked eggs, bacon, and pancakes on the plate and discreetly licks his lips. It’s a plain breakfast for Pureblood standards but Draco couldn’t imagine eating anything else at the moment. Surprisingly, there were days in Paris where he would prefer this to a decadent plate of _pain au chocolat_ or _sautéed apple crepes_. Simple is good too.

When he puts the plate in front of him, it takes all of his self-restraint to not dig in like a ravished animal. Instead, he waits patiently for Potter to get himself settled, busying himself by carefully laying a napkin on his lap and tries to ignore the titillating steam that wafted up from the food and to his nose.

Salazar, he loves a man that can cook. 

Potter, not noticing that Draco was politely waiting for him to be settled down to eat, crams two pieces of bacon into his mouth at the same time on his way into his seat, demolishing the food much like Weasley. Draco shudders.

He also likes a man that has table manners. But if given the choice, he could work with this. 

Attempting to inconspicuously pass on some table manners to his messy-haired breakfast companion, Draco cuts his eggs and bacon up into tiny pieces and primly eats with the same demure delicateness his mother taught him. He looks up and is rather pleased to see Potter staring intently at him. 

He raises an amused brow. “Take a picture Potter, it’ll last longer.” He brings the fork up to his lips and cleans it with a delicate swipe of his tongue. If he didn’t know any better, he’d stay that Potter looked wonderfully entranced by the action.

He clears his throat. “Maybe I would if I wanted to recall just how ridiculously posh one person can be.”

Draco gives an undignified squeak in protest. “Sorry if I don’t devour my breakfast like a slobbering mutt.” He grimaces when in that moment, Potter accidentally drops a piece of bacon into his lap. He picks it up and eats it without any hesitation. 

Wolves. It had to be wolves that raised him. Draco’s sure of it.

“That’s rich coming from a man that eats his bacon with a fork. A fork?!” He shakes his head as if it was the most prosperous idea to have table manners before focusing back down on his plate. “I really don’t understand how Al and Scorpius ever became friends.”

Right, because really, look at them. Potter, with bacon greased hands and mouth, nearly drooling over his plate as he eats. And him, with his refined and posh-to-a-fault mannerisms. It truly was either a miracle or fate’s special way of fucking with him. 

“Please tell me you don’t eat like that on dates?”

Draco tenses. Either Potter doesn’t understand what it means to drop it or he just doesn’t fucking care. “And if I do?”

He smirks into his plate. “Then I can see why your dates don’t work out.” Draco snarls, bloody hell, does he know how to shut up? “At least you got one thing going for you.”

“And that is?” He asks through gritted teeth.

“You can always try serenading them,” Potter jokes, though it’s not really a joke when he adds, “You certainly have the voice for it.”

Draco feels his body temperature rise and this time not in anger. “Dare I say, is the Chosen One baring _me_ a compliment? I shall tell my grandchildren of this day.”

It shouldn’t be nearly as endearing as it was to see Potter’s face turn a guilty shade of pink. He blinked owlishly at him, before turning his gaze to his plate, glowering at it like it somehow insulted him. “It doesn’t take a bloody genius to note that you have a nice singing voice.” He coughs into his hand. “For a ferret,” he adds, because just like Draco himself, Harry Potter couldn’t bear the idea of giving him a compliment without throwing in a special insult just for him. 

Draco laughs airly. They were much too alike and simultaneously far too different. 

“Thank you anyway. It’s funny, now that you’re telling me this, I wonder if the key to fixing my marriage was my singing,” he blurts out, his voice too low for it to be taken as a joke. He doesn’t know why he cocked the conversation up by bringing his ex-wife up but he did. It was even more ludicrous seeing that he knows the true reasons for why he divorced her and it’s certainly not because he didn’t sing stupid songs for her.

Thankfully, Potter is none the wiser. “You mean you never did?” He sounds shocked. Of course, Potter’s marriage would be filled with heartful sing-alongs and spontaneous dancing. Probably with flowers owled to work desks and good morning kisses. The kind of things you get when your marriage isn't pre-arranged by your parents. 

“No. I never sang around her,” Draco admits. “It was always something just for Scorpius and I.” He feels heated spots rise on his cheeks. “And now you and Albus, I suppose.”

It still feels weird having Potter know that about it. No, it wasn’t his deepest, darkest secret and no was it something he was particularly ashamed of but it was rather intimate knowledge. Knowledge that not even his former wife was privy to. Despite his attraction to him, the fact that the person Draco at one point considered a vile nemesis now knows such an intimate detail about him was unnerving.

Whatever. He tells himself that it doesn’t matter much anyway; being able to sing was a frivolous, useless skill. He’d rather have the ability to cook.

Potter snickers. “So does that mean I can request your singing whenever I’m feeling sad?”

“Don’t push it.”

Truthfully? He’ll sing until his voice is raw and aching for Potter’s attention. But he couldn’t imagine how pathetic it would sound coming out of his mouth; probably even more than it did in his head. 

“I’ll ferret it out of you eventually,” he teases, his voice catching at the end as if he was regretting bringing up their shared memory of what Draco still deems as the most embarrassing moment of his life. Besides having an entire conversation with Potter and Ana with his fly down. 

Draco shoots him a dirty scowl. “It’s like you _want_ me to hex your bollocks off.” Ferrets are an off-limit topic if this growing tolerance for each other was going to continue.

Potter makes an indistinguishable sound and mutters something under his breath. Something that makes him blush and makes Draco wish for the love of all things magic he would repeat it louder. A thick slice of syrup-covered bacon is shoved into his mouth to avoid speaking any longer.

He can practically feel Potter thinking as they finished their respective meals in silence. His brows were screwed together and his eyes had that far off, wandering look to them. He’s tempted to offer a Knut for his thoughts, but he decides to settle with silence instead. Silence can be good too, with the right people. Or person. 

Potter yawns, throwing down his crumpled napkin onto his empty plate. “Let’s hope Gin takes her time bringing the kids home today. Al would probably badger you with questions.”

Draco swallows the lump in his throat. Right. He had to leave before his son came home and ask why his father was letting an ex-Death Eater into their home. 

As if reading his thoughts, Potter’s eyes widen and he quickly gulps down the last bit of tea in his cup. “No! Not like that, it’s just… he found out that I’m thinking about assigning a book about constellations and he found out that your name is one. You and Scorpius just have interesting names to him.”

As prideful as Draco was about his and Scorpius’ names, he wonders what sort of English teacher he was to teach constellations. He hadn’t seen that in the lesson plans. “Constellations?” He snorts. “Did you teach constellations to the Aurors in your department too?” 

Potter fixes him with a searing gaze. “Aur… Circe Malfoy, how many sodding times do I—!” He balls his hand into a fist. Draco winces at the sharpest of his tone and he holds his hands up defensively. Why was Potter so snappish about the Aurors?

“Fine, fine, no talk of Aurors.” He makes a zipping motion with his fingers and thins his mouth. “But can I please just ask you one last question?”

Potter eyes him from behind his teacup. “Make it count.”

Draco leans forward, examining him closely. “Tell me, Potter, where did you get your eyeglasses from?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Draco is forced to sing is Nothing Is Too Wonderful To Be True from the musical Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.
> 
> Comments and kudos are much appreciated and loved!


	4. Alpha Centauri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Recreational Drug Use

“I look ridiculous,” Scorpius pouts.

Draco drags him along, for the first time actually tugging him _towards_ the school and not away from it. “You look fine,” he insists. And he really does; glasses fit his face perfectly. “You are far more handsome than me when I was your age. A pair of glasses doesn’t change that.”

“It changes everything!”

“Hush.”

Scorpius throws his head back and whines, sounding all the more like the younger version of himself. It was easy to forget from his witty retorts and polite exterior that Scorpius was only ten and was prone to temper tantrums just like any other ten year old.

Draco drags him up the stairs of the school building and he hears Scorpius scoff loudly behind him. “Oh, so now you’re not afraid to go inside the school?”

He abruptly stops walking and holds up his pointer finger to his son’s face. “Watch it.”

Scorpius wisely snaps his mouth shut, though he gives him a nasty glare as Draco tugs him through the halls to Potter and Ana’s classrooms.

“Potter. Ana.” He nods at them in greeting. “Good morning.” He thumps Scorpius on the shoulder when he doesn’t do the same. Glaring up at him, he mutters a good morning to his teachers through pouted lips.

“Good morning Scorp,” Potter bends down and ruffles his hair. “Cool ‘specs you got there.”

Scorpius glowers at the floor.

“That’s actually the problem,” says Draco. “We recently discovered that Scorpius needs glasses and as you can see he’s not taken too kindly to having them.” His mouth tightens in warning at his son when he hisses under his breath. Scorpius was really testing his patience this morning. “So I just wanted to inform you that he is to wear his glasses at all times unless given special permission to remove them. And furthermore, if there are any behavioral issues as a result, please do not hesitate to contact me.” He smiles charmingly at Ana. “You have my email.”

Draco practiced that in the mirror last night and this morning. No parent is ever willing to admit it, but sometimes a rehearsed speech is necessary to stand your ground. He already has a speech planned if he ever catches Scorpius sneaking out of the house and a very good one planned if Merin-forbid he ever says anything derogatory about Muggles or Muggleborns.

Parenthood is all about preparation, after all.

“I don’t think that will be much of a problem,” assures Ana, clasping her hands behind her back. “Do you Scorpius?”

“No,” he replies curtly. 

“No what?”

If looks could kill, Draco would be a dead man walking. So would Scorpius for that matter. 

“No ma’am.”

Muggle or not, his grandmother would be appalled knowing that Scorpius wasn’t paying due respect to his educator. Narcissa Malfoy felt very strongly about manners.

With balled fists, Scorpius marches into Ana’s room, his head hung low and his black-framed glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. Today will be an uncomfortable day for him, but he’ll survive. 

Potter crosses his arms and watches as Ana helps Scorpius settle into her room. He tsks disappointingly. “Glasses aren’t _that_ bad,” he protests. _They’re not on you,_ he wants to say, but Draco holds his tongue because sometimes, speaking his mind wasn’t always for the best. He just hums in agreement. Potter’s hand wraps around his elbow right when Draco turns to leave. “What did I tell you, you’re an excellent father.”

Instead of snapping at him for bringing up the eventful morning that caused all of this mess, Draco surprises them both by laughing. Potter sucks in a breath at the sound and his fingers clench around his elbow. 

“I suppose you may be correct this one time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a research proposal that needs to be rejected.”

The fingers around his elbow refuse to let go. Draco gives Potter an irritated look.

“I just wanted to remind you that today is Thursday, we have our paired reading for the afterschool kids.”

Bloody hell that was today. He sighs. All of this glasses' endeavor with Scorpius caused him to forget about today’s commitment. “Right. I’ll see you later then.”

A room full of children and Potter. What could possibly go wrong?

* * *

Draco believed that he had matured enough in his 31 years to admit when he was wrong. So he’ll admit that he was very, very wrong about today.

As much as he complained and protested Potter’s idea before, it only takes one afternoon of helping out with the afterschool program for Draco to realize that he loves it. Of course, he would love it more if he wasn’t stuck sitting in the tiniest chairs known to man and if the room didn’t smell like chalk and baby powder, but he’ll argue that it was worth a bit of discomfort.

The children are sluggish, subdued from a full day of learning and playing. Most of them are either Scorpius’ age or younger and Draco realizes just how much he’s missed having a five year old tugging on his trouser leg and asking him to play. They’re surprisingly docile too, having been to afterschool long enough to know better than to cause mischief. One little girl with chubby cheeks and neat cornrows down her back especially tugs at his heartstrings when she politely asks him in a tiny voice if he can open her bottle of orange juice for her. 

He feels like a dragon melted by its own fire when she chirps ‘Thank you!’ to him and gives him a quick hug around his waist, not even caring when she spills a bit of the sugary juice on his trouser leg.

“They’re good kids aren’t they?” Potter says from behind him, a smudge of pink paint on his flushed cheeks from a boy who wanted to paint flowers on him. 

Draco melts again from the sight, though not in quite the same way as before. 

“They’re better than average I’d say,” Draco admits with a shrug, his eyes drawn to the girl with the juice drawing on the alphabet carpet in the center of the room. He can see why Potter likes this so much, though Draco would eat cement before being a school teacher. Children were fine, but only in small doses. Small, microscopic doses. “What’s her name?” He points to the little girl.

“Her?” Draco nods. “Oh, that’s Sachi, Sagitta’s sister actually.” He smiles fondly, moving closer so that his hair was tickling Draco’s cheek. “There’s a lot more witches and wizards in Muggle London than people think. You should meet their mother, she’s Nigerian and apparently the Muggles there are far more knowledgeable of magical communities than the Muggles here are.”

Draco’s heard that in some parts of the world, there were strangely high populations of wizards and witches, but he never quite considered London to be one of them. Looking around, he wondered just how many of these children were actually aware of the wizarding world or were magic themselves. 

As if reading his mind, Potter says, “Her and Boot’s son are the only ones, so don’t worry. You didn’t accidentally transfer your son into a pseudo-Muggle school.” 

He supposes that Potter wasn’t too bad when children are around at least. He seems calmer, happier, and he hasn’t stopped smiling since they started, even when the boy he was painting with spilled purple paint on the front of his shirt.

“Good. That would have defeated the purpose of enrolling him.”

Potter stills, eyeing him as though he was trying to make up his mind about something. “You’re actually ser—” He shakes his head, quickly moving away from him. “Nevermind. Kids! It’s storytime.”

Draco hardly had a chance to figure out what he was going to say because it was storytime, so that meant that all of the children came rushing forward to sit on the carpet with Sachi, bright-eyed and eager for whatever Potter was playing on doing next. Some of them sat upright with their small legs crossed, but most immediately lied down on the rug, squirming to get comfortable in a tangle of limbs and giggling mouths. 

“Care to join us Malfoy?” 

An odd look crosses his face when Draco doesn’t sit up front with him but instead joins the children on the carpet. A boy that has an uncanny resemblance to Scorpius offers him a little wave when Draco ends up sitting next to him. He waves back.

“Alright then,” Potter starts. Draco waits for him to pull out a children’s book and begin reading from it, but he does no such thing. Instead, Potter gives them all a content half-smile, basking in the anxious eagerness of the children and Draco. What was he up to?

“Tell me, has anyone ever heard the tale, _If You Give a Troll a Book?_ ” Everyone shakes their heads. Potter gives an exaggerated gasp, feigning shock that they haven’t heard of such a story. “No? Well then settle in, I have a very true and very wonderful story to tell.”

The children squirm eagerly. Draco finds himself leaning forward too.

In a smooth, steady voice, Potter recounts the story of a lonely princess trapped in a tower with her trusty terrier and stubborn steed. She devotes all her time to learning and reading books from the vast library in the castle, only to one day notice that the abundance of books in her library isn’t so abundant anymore and that every day, a new book disappears.

Draco wonders how long he can keep it together before he finally bursts out into laughter. Potter, crazy, wild-eyed Potter, with pink paint on his cheeks and a stained shirt, was bedazzling the terrifying night when a troll broke into Hogwarts into something acceptable for kids. It’s enough to meet the Ministry of Magic’s standards but not enough for Draco to pick up on the not so subtle hint at who this ‘intelligent, curly-haired princess’ was. He wonders what Granger would think of being called one.

The children love it, giggling as Potter produced the high pitched voice of reason for the princess, a stuttering warble for the terrier, a nasally, determined voice for the steed, and a booming growl for the troll.

He was oddly talented, with Draco probably the most wide-eyed of them all as he listened to his former arch rival pull silly faces and usher the children around him to sleep with his enchanting voice. 

Draco’s probably never seen a person more in their element than Harry Potter is now.

By the time the troll and the princess have learned the art of sharing not a single youthful eye is open. Potter stands up, walking on tip toes around the sleeping bodies. Draco does the same, both of them silently migrating to a tiny desk in the back of the classroom. He’s considering putting up a _Muffliato_ so that they don’t disturb their sleep, but Draco has a feeling they’ll sleep through an earthquake. 

The silence is comfortable, both of them watching the children and watching as the minutes on the smiley face clock tick by. 

Then Potter ruins it. “So when are you going to sing for the class Malfoy?” 

Draco swivels around in the small chair, fixing him with a dangerous glare. “I beg your pardon?” He and Potter instinctively freeze when one of the children yawns, relaxing only when the little boy sighs softly and goes back to sleep. 

Green eyes cut over to the pile of sleeping children pointedly. “Watch it,” Potter hisses, “Don’t wake the kids over a simple question.”

“A stupid question,” he admonishes irritatedly. “What in the world makes you think I’ll do something like that anyway?” 

“Scorpius said that you would.”

“My ten year old child says a lot of things. Doesn’t mean that they’re all true,” snarked Draco. Great, now his son was auditioning him off to entertain Potter and a bunch of children as payback for this morning. He’d rather go and handpick his cell in Azkaban than do that. It’s not his fault that he needs glasses.

Potter’s lips thinned into a disappointed line. Whatever, not like he cared. “Pity. I was rather looking forward to it.”

Draco rolls his eyes. Yeah, he bets he was looking forward to Draco making a right fool out of himself. He wouldn’t dare to give him or Scorpius the satisfaction. “I’d rather not degrade myself by doing so.”

“Sure.” He neatly collects the worn, nubby crayons on the desk and places them back into their respective boxes. Potter has to keep his hands busy, Draco’s noticed. He’s always fidgeting, or doing odd little dances, or worse, _singing._ “You know you’re not nearly as scary as you think Malfoy.”

Draco narrows his eyes in warning. “I am terrifying.” 

Potter laughs, the low rumbling pleasant amidst the soft snores of the tiny humans around them. “Sure,” he repeats drily, sounding as if he doesn’t even feel the need to argue with him over a pointless observation. 

With crossed arms, Draco slumps into his seat, looking over at the sleeping children and feeling his heart do that tugging thing again. “You were good—with the storytelling thing I mean.”

He laughs softly, his eyes focused on the outline of a bird he was coloring. “Dare I say, is _the_ Draco Malfoy bidding me a compliment?” He looks up from under his thick, dark lashes, smirking.

Draco opens his mouth to reply with some snarky comment that he wouldn’t compliment him if he was the last man on earth, but then he quickly closes it. It wasn’t true, was it? He could pretend all he wants that Potter’s little performance wasn’t incredible, but it wouldn’t do either of them any good to lie. 

He still doesn’t quite know how to reconcile this image of Potter—a charming, English teacher that puts children to sleep with his stories and will gladly let a child paint a flower on his cheek— to the other version of Potter. The one that revels in his discomfort, pushes his buttons until he is aching from anger, that will show him up unprompted just because he can. The one that sliced his chest open all those years ago, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. 

He supposes that the two aren't mutually exclusive, just the reflection that he gets when he views him from a different angle. He can do this when measuring the distance of a star—change the angle, reverse the perception, go backward, and take a closer look than the last. Maybe he can do this with him too.

Maybe, it was time to show Potter a different side of himself as well. 

Draco lifts his chin. “I am, actually. Complimenting you.” Potter stops drawing. Possibly stops breathing. Draco holds out his hand. “Now, may I see one of those coloring utensils, please? I think I will draw a flower.”

* * *

Potter’s storytelling resonated with Draco so much that in the spirit of friendship—regardless of how tenuous that title was—Draco decided to actually give him a gift. 

Well, not for Potter per se, but rather for a gift for the children that he could use. He may or may not have overheard Potter talking to Ana about how he still has yet to find a book based on constellations for the children in his class to read for next term. And he knew just the perfect book.

Unfortunately, it meant that he would have to go to Pansy’s to get it. Not that he didn’t love his best friend, but being cooped up in the house had taken a toll on her. 

She’s on him the second he comes through the Floo. “Draco! Come, sit!” She gestured to the armchair beside hers that was stacked with soft green pillows with silver fringe on the edges.

“Here,” Pansy shoves an old, dusted book his way. Draco gingerly takes it, feeling it’s weight and glancing at the cover to make sure that this was the one. The title, _The Lost Constellation,_ stares back at him, and the memory of first reading his favorite childhood book rushes back to him in a stream of nostalgia and buried anger. You don’t forget your first favorite book, and this one has aged well in his memories.

He still hasn’t forgiven his father for burning his copy in front of him when he found out he had read it.

The Manor is filled with books, far more than one could ever read in fact, but Draco knows that half of them are about the Dark Arts and a quarter are books that contain the name Malfoy somewhere in the text. This book is Muggle and Pansy’s recent love for Muggle things have thankfully translated into their literature as well.

“How’s Potter and wild child?” She asks conversationally. Her stomach is growing bigger each time he sees her and he’s aggravated that he’s missed his chance of scolding her for bringing him tea. He scowls at her through the steam floating towards the ceiling.

He knows the tea is probably delicious but that still won’t get her out of his admonishing. “They’re less stressful than my best friend foolishly trying to do work while pregnant.” He takes a sip of the cup. Pomegranate. Damn it to hell, but if she doesn’t know how to win him over so well. 

“Eh, whatever. It’s maddening sitting still all day.” She throws her head back groans loudly. “Ughh, I would _kill_ to have a pint right now. Tell me, does alcohol still taste the same?”

“Still burns. Still fucks you up.”

She moans. “Keep talking like that and I might just come right here and now.”

Draco’s face warms. He was used to Pansy’s crude talk but she never rubs her thighs together and _moans_. “Are you alright?” Draco waves a hand towards her face. “You seem a little…”

“Horny? Yes I am.” She waves her sweaty face. “Whew, my libido has been in overdrive and I swear Draco, if Blaise and his fat cock aren’t here in the next ten seconds, me and this baby will burst. There’s only so many times I can stand humping that pillow.” She points to the silver-fringed pillow he currently had his arm under.

A silent scream is trapped in his throat and his left eye begins to twitch. With delicate precision, Draco gently sets his tea down on the coffee table beside him and gives her a pained smile. “And I think that’s my cue to leave. Thanks Pansy—”

She reaches a hand out. “Draco no—”

“—for the book but I must be on my way.” He wrings himself out of her grasp and sprints to the Floo. “Bye! Love you!”

“Arsehole!”

He blows her an air kiss and steps into the Floo just as she flips two fingers at him. He was suddenly in need of a long, hot shower.

* * *

He’s walking to Ana’s room to pick up Scorpius when a hand roughly tugs him by the elbow and Draco’s pulled into the embrace of two strong arms before he can even properly protest. The scent of woods hits his nose and he growls.

“Ugh, Potter!” Thick, black hair tickles his cheeks and he ends up with a mouthful of the stuff. His strong arms squeeze tighter around his body. He pushes him away the second Potter relinquishes his grip on him. Draco fusses over his clothes and hair, scoffing at the audacity of his son’s teacher. 

“That was for the book,” Potter grins, those dimples deeper than he’s ever seen them. “It’s literally exactly what I was looking for. I could literally kiss you right now!”

_Please do._

“Please don’t,” he growls, holding a hand out in warning. “You’re welcome Potter, but next time you ambush me like that you’ll have balls for teeth.”

Stupid dimples only deepen at his threat. “Sure,” he drawls, a large grin still plastered on his face. “As a token of my appreciation, I am formally inviting you and Scorpius to a playdate, this Saturday at my house.” He bows. Draco wrinkles his nose. This is the case of a man who clearly spends too much of his time around children.

“My house,” Draco says. He really didn’t want to accidentally run into Ginevra nor was he particularly enthused to go back into the same house he had a breakdown in. Further, he wasn’t sure he was entirely comfortable having Scorpius in Potter’s house, even if Draco would be right there with him. 

Potter’s voice shakes with apprehension. “Are you sure?” He scratches his beard. “Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose of me repaying you?”

“Potter. My house. Saturday. Come or don’t.” He shrugs. “It was a gift anyway, I don’t see why you’re making such a big deal over it.”

Secretly, he’s ecstatic that Potter was making a fuss over it. But, like always, Draco would never give him the satisfaction of telling him so. He had much better things to do. Like child-proofing everything in his home before Saturday.

* * *

Whoever invented the idea of a play date should be hexed senseless. 

Now Draco loves Scorpius, more than he’s ever loved anyone or anything in his life, but good Merlin, he wonders how well he actually knew his son sometimes. As Draco watches him and Albus play, he wonders when his son became so… _weird._ Like, actually, genuinely weird. 

Apparently, Potter loves it, watching in amusement as Albus sticks two chips in his nose and as Scorpius does the same, the two of them heaving over with laughter when Albus snorts and one comes flying out of his nostril and onto Draco’s expensive platter. Draco groans. He won’t stop his fun, but really, there was only so much of this he could take before he bashes his head into a wall. As much he wants to deny it, his son was just as bad as Albus was.

Scorpius is suggesting that they braid the fur of Princess and Optimus Prime, Lily’s pink, very female Pygmy Puff that Albus brought, when Draco decides now was his time to make a quick break. He can deal with a lot, but he wasn’t much interested in playing dress up with two Pygmy Puffs. He slips out on quiet tip toes when the two children and Potter have their backs turned, casting a noise deflector charm on his feet as he leaves to go up to his office. There was an abstract on the Alpha Centauri that was calling for him.

Boring adult stuff. Draco lives for it. 

Only he can hardly focus from the sound of giggling and laughter floating up to the third floor. After half an hour and with hardly two sentences written, Draco’s considering whether it was worth casting a silencing charm when Potter bursts into his office. He opens his mouth to chew him out for not knocking, a skill that even Scorpius had mastered, when he noticed a woven gift basket in his hand.

“Malfoy, who sent you a gift basket?”

“Excuse me?” Potter waves an envelope in between his two fingers. “Give me that,” he snatches the paper out of Potter’s grip. 

Not bothering to read the note, he jumps straight to the name signed at the bottom of the parchment. 

_Finley Greengrass._

Astoria’s father. Draco knew he’ll hear from him soon enough, but how tactless does someone have to be to convince their gay former son-in-law to remarry their daughter through a bloody gift basket? He rummages through the basket Potter sits on his desk. Inside are fancy jewelry and chocolates for him. Draco wrinkles his nose. No thanks. He doesn’t need jewelry and those chocolates are probably spiked with an illegal love potion. 

But it’s what’s at the bottom of the basket that ignites him. Scorpius’ name is printed on several new copies of Martin the Mad Muggle comics. 

He grits his teeth, “That sodding _arsehole!_ ” His wand vibrates, the length of hawthorn he was currently using to hold his low braided bun in place, quivering to be in the palm of his hand.

Snatching the basket, Draco storms past Potter, thankful that Scorpius and Albus were too busy braiding Puff fur in Scorpius’ room that they don’t hear Draco’s growls of anger or his heavy footsteps on the hardwood. 

The gift basket falls into a crumpled heap on the grassy backyard when Draco violently tosses it out the door. The comics spill out onto the grass, the cover image of Martin Miggs smiling moronically up to the grey sky. He’s never been happier to have a fence around his backyard because his Muggle neighbors will not appreciate what he’s about to do.

Potter’s voice floats up from behind him. “Draco, what are you— shite!”

The incantation doesn’t even have to leave his lips, his buzzing magic doing the work for him. The fire that bursts from his wand destroys the pile in a matter of seconds, turning it into one of Draco’s favorite things—ash.

Potter repeatedly rakes his hands through his hair, his jaw loose from shock. “What the hell was that for?!”

Draco turns around, his now loose braid whipping him in the face as he does. Potter’s pressed up against the frame of the door, looking absolutely petrified of the man standing in front of him. 

“My former father-in-law thought it was a swell idea to send my son that filth.” God he always hated Finley. If he could see him now… 

Ashen-face, Potter asks, “You don’t mean—?”

“I mean, those disgusting Martin Miggs comics.” He fires another powerful _Incendio_ at the pile of ash, just to give his magic something to take his anger out on. The flames evaporate themselves in the air with a crisp _whoosh_ , leaving a scorching heat in its wake. Potter jumps into the doorframe at the large fire that’s produced, his hands gripping the edges. 

Draco doesn’t know why he looks so baffled by his reaction. When angered, a dragon will always choose fire as it’s first form of retaliation. 

With a shaky shrug, Potter shoves his hands into his trouser pockets, rocking nervously back and forth on the heel of his feet. “Merlin, I’m going to regret this—what’s so wrong with those comics?”

He gags. How can he not see it? “Those comics are awful!” He points to the ugly pile of ash sitting atop of burnt grass. “How do you think it starts, Potter? Those books just further perpetuate a negative view of Muggles and by extension Muggleborns.” Potter blinks, his eyes comedically wide behind his glasses. “It seems insignificant, but it _matters._ It matters what sort of perceptions a child is shown. How do you think I—”

His voice falters. He remembers those same comics sitting above the shelf on his bed in his childhood. He remembers learning what the word ‘Mudblood’ meant before he even knew how to spell his name. He remembers being three years old and his mother coddling him, telling him that he’s magic. She had quickly followed this statement up with a reminder that he was _Pureblood—_ the word revered as if it was something sacred, something better than just being magic or better than just being a three year old child that could tell his colors apart.

It matters; it _always_ matters.

“You’re right.”

Draco raises his head in surprise. Did he hear that correctly?

Potter comes down the creaky backyard steps, stopping until he was a mere foot away from him. He’s still visibly shaken by Draco’s sudden outburst of flames and he looks on the verge of violently sneezing from the smell of burnt grass and paper in the air, but his voice is strong. “Don’t look so surprised. I think it’s clear that we’ve both matured enough to admit that the other person isn’t as mad as we thought they were. Don’t you agree?” 

Loss for words, Draco only manages to nod numbly in reply.

“Now I don’t know if I’m going to go set fire to the Martin Miggs comics Ron gifted Al, but you make a compelling point.”

Draco bites the inside of his cheek, his arms swinging loosely around his body. “I can burn them for you if you want?” Just like his father, he too has a talent for burning literature.

Potter laughs at his offer. His laugh truly is a marvelous sound to the ears. Some of the rage bubbling his chest shimmers down like cooled lava, still hot and burning to the touch, though not as violent. Not as destructive.

“I think it’s best just to wait until he leaves for Hogwarts, yeah?” He points his own wand to the pile of ash and Vanishes it away with several flicks, the only evidence of Draco’s fury being the smoking, burnt grass underneath. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs. 

Potter softly elbows his ribs. “I’ve been meaning to say this for a while, but, I’m sorry for what I said after that first PTA meeting. You’re clearly not…like _that_ anymore.”

Draco lets out a dry laugh. “You mean an insane blood purist? You can say it; Scorpius and I try not to sugarcoat things.” He blows his hair out from his eyes. “We call it ‘say it like it is’ over here. I can't condemn any opinion you have if you start it with that.” 

Potter was now being debriefed in the sacred Malfoy family rule. Parallel universes really do exist.

“Well in that case,” Draco freezes when Potter gently takes his braid in between his fingers, giving it a little tug before he pushes it behind his shoulder. Draco doesn’t breathe once, watching him with wide eyes. Potter leans forward and his heart rate spikes. “I agree that you’re not a blood purist anymore. But if we’re saying it like it is,” he melts when he feels Potter’s warm breaths on his lips, “you're without a doubt insane.”

Potter has him stuck, he can’t move, can’t breathe, can hardly even think. His mind is whirling, the feeling of Potter touching his braid, _tugging_ it, consuming his thoughts. His cologne smells so nice, his eyes are so _green_ against the wintery white air, and those tiny freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose and under his glasses are mesmerizing. On the crisp edge of winter, he somehow looks like summer personified. 

He feels honored, for being able to be close enough to Harry Potter’s face to fully appreciate his beauty.

“Thank you,” he breathes.

Potter leans back and barks out a laugh, playfully clapping him on the back and breaking the spell. “You are a complete nutter Malfoy. Come on, there’s a Pygmy Puff fashion show happening soon; if we hurry we may just get the best seats.”

Draco rubs his eyes. “Right.” Merlin, he really needs to get Scorpius into Quidditch or something. “I have to do something in my office but I’ll be there in five.”

He shoots him a charming smile as he enters the house. “I’ll save you a seat,” promises Potter, winking.

Giving him a pained smile, Draco waits a full minute outside in the cold before Apparating into his office. With one hand he places an excessive amount of locking charms on the door. The other is wrapped around his cock, furiously working up and down each inch with a nearly painful velocity. 

Draco stuffs his wrist into his mouth, biting down to stifle his moan when he thinks of those tiny freckles on Potter’s face gleaming in the winter sunlight like stars. 

It’s only several more tugs until he’s coming on his office floor, panting like a bitch in heat over Harry Potter like he was sixteen again. He presses his forehead on his wooden desk, trying to calm his racing heart as the rest of his orgasm shudders through him with surprising strength. His fingers trace the spot of his hair where Potter touched as if trying to replicate the feeling. Though when he tugs at his braid, it doesn’t live up to the feeling of Potter’s thick fingers running themselves over his hair.

This is why he makes a point never to spoil Scorpius because not even Draco can get everything he wants.

* * *

It’s freezing on his roof, but Draco would rather deal with the piercing winter winds than return to his office. It’s the only place he can think clearly these days. 

Draco’s learned the hard way that anyone who befriends Harry Potter will be subjected to small displays of physical affection. All strictly platonic of course, because what a headline that would be—the wizarding world finding out that the Chosen One fancied blokes?

Today was the last day of school before Winter Break and despite all his attempts to avoid Potter, he was there outside of the school, handing peppermint sweets to excited children as they bounded down the stairs. Trailed by Albus and his son, Potter had personally delivered Draco a sweet, hardly noticing that his fingers, warm and lovely, had brushed against his shoulder, grazing past the base of his braid. 

It’s like he does this on purpose. Tempting him. 

Temptation tasted sweeter than the peppermint he placed in his palm that day, constantly guiling him into giving in. Doesn’t he know? Doesn’t he see it, feel it? He must, or else he would just leave Draco alone.

* * *

“And so I said, well it’s not fair to give him detention when the other young lady was _also_ talking in class! That just doesn’t seem right in my book!”

Draco and Areum share an exasperated look as Kacia continues blathering about how unfair her son received detention for chatting in class. Really, it wasn’t that hard to figure out where he got it from. 

Areum, the Korean woman who Draco first saw endure Kacia’s constant chattering, is possibly the funniest person in this PTA group. The thing is, she hardly ever speaks to anyone but him, but over the weeks they’ve bonded through side eyes and silent yawns. 

Every Friday, Kacia comes in and vents about how her nail polish chipped while driving or how her bratty son refuses to eat his sandwich unless it was cut into triangles—but not squares, _never_ squares—and he and Areum exchange rolled eyes paired with faux sympathetic glances for Kacia’s unfortunate dilemmas. 

If anything, it makes dealing with Jaspers a little easier these days. 

Potter comes in, his booming voice and charming smile capturing the attention of everyone in the room. Even Kacia quiets when he walks in. 

Since the playdate disaster, Draco’s made it a point to keep his distance from Potter. It’s been hell. This Friday was the first PTA meeting since Winter Break and nearly everyday Scorpius had asked to hang out with Albus. Draco allowed him of course; he wasn’t going to deny his son companionship because of his own inability to keep it in his pants, but bloody hell was it difficult. Potter was there at every turn with his smiles and dimples. Besides a quick shoulder hug, he hadn’t tried to touch his hair again. As much as he wished he could say that he didn’t want Potter to, he would be lying through his teeth. 

He’d never known a simple touch would make such a stark difference. All of Astoria’s touches felt like obligations.

Potter consumed his thoughts most days now. Over break there was no lesson plans to be sent and Draco found himself checking the Muggle horoscope daily again. He may or may not also have checked under the horoscope for Leo as well. Just to see. He had to force himself last week not to ask Potter for his birth chart to satisfy his curiosity. 

His nights were spent stroking himself into oblivion, his libido worse than Pansy’s every time he laid down to sleep. 

Draco wishes Potter could see—see what he’s done to him. 

He and Scorpius spent their first Christmas from Paris tip-toeing around the fact that they were missing another person of their family this year. Somehow, their unwritten rule to not sugarcoat anything falls flat when it comes to Astoria. She is the exception to everything. 

It was only when two gifts were sent by owl for them when he saw a glimpse of joy in Scorpius’ eyes for the first time that day. Potter’s gift may be worth all of the frustration. Maybe. 

But now they were back for a new term, and Draco couldn’t hide from Potter forever. He was doomed to suffer for the rest of the year with a smile on his face and a hard cock throbbing in his trousers.

Potter finally finishes, with the tired parents unused to the return of their typical work week dispersing the second he bids them all a goodbye. Draco hastily stands up, preparing to be the first out of the room.

“Malfoy, mind staying back for a minute?”

Draco mutters a silent _‘fuck’_ , cursing his luck and his legs for not getting him out of this room quick enough. Tongue in cheek, he turns around and gives Potter his best unimpressed expression. “Yes, Potter? You can’t just call me like I’m one of your underaged students.” He blows a raspberry, rolling his eyes. “What, should I call you _Mr. Potter_ next?”

Potter scratches the back of his head, an embarrassed blush creeping into his cheeks. “Yeah… I mean no! No, I was just wondering if you and Scorp were doing anything this Saturday?”

Groaning he says, “Please don’t tell me it’s for another playdate.”

“It’s not for another playdate.”

He straightens his back. “Then you have my attention.”

Potter leans in far closer than he needs to, looking around to make sure no one is around. “Can you keep a secret?” Draco backs away, not liking how this was sounding. Potter catches his hand and pulls him before he can scamper out of the room. He winces good-naturedly. “Too much?”

“Far too much.”

“Sorry,” he laughs, “you just can’t tell Al or Scorp about this. I have two extra tickets to the London amusement park. Ginny has a game so she can’t come with us this weekend but I was wondering if you and Scorpius might like to come with?”

Not wanting to admit that he has absolutely no idea what an amusement park is, he asks, “I don’t know, will I be amused?”

Potter lets out a soft snort. “That was awful Malfoy. Who knew you would succumb to telling Dad jokes?”

Ew. He needs to get more adult friends. Together, Blaise and Pansy hardly count as one functioning adult. “You said that you had two tickets, who was the other one for?” It’s none of his business, but Draco reasons that he’s allowed to pry in the business of a man that touches his hair like Potter does.

“Oh, Ginny was going to bring someone…” Potter responds flippantly. “But it doesn’t really matter, they’re yours now. So what do you say?” He takes out two rectangular pieces of paper, waving them in his face with an amused grin. 

He chews his lip, trying to recall off the top of his head if there was anything on his wall of reminders that would advise him to stay inside and away from black-haired temptations. Though the more he thinks about it, it seems that the universe is doing everything it can to push Potter and him into these situations. 

“It’s a date.”

Potter’s throat bobs as he digests what he just said. “It’s a what?” The tickets in his fingers still; his grip around the papers tightening till his nail bed turns a light pink shade that begins to match the hue creeping from under his beard.

Draco snatches away his hand, his eyes darting around nervously. “What? Nothing, god Potter, take a joke.” He sneers at him, slipping through the door before Potter can stop him. 

Taking a deep breath, he looks at his hands. There was only a minimal amount of shaking. He smirks. He’s getting too good at dealing with Harry Potter.

* * *

“Great Salazar Slytherin! What are these abominations?!” Draco shrieks. 

A cart of people speeds past them on one of those metal contraptions, the sheer force of its velocity settling in his bones. Draco shivers. Harry Potter has brought them to a death trap.

Albus gives him a gap-toothed smile. He seems far too happy to explain something to an adult. “It’s a rollercoaster Mr. Malfoy! You go on it and some of them do these little loops,” he makes several looping motions with his chubby forefinger. “It’s fun!”

Draco disagrees. Being tossed around in the air on anything that wasn’t a broom wasn’t his idea of fun. He turned to Scorpius who was nearly shaking in his shoes with excitement. Shite. It seemed to be his son’s idea of fun unfortunately. 

“Please tell me you’re not thinking of getting _on_ one of those things?” He asks Scorpius.

Scorpius takes his hand in his and bounces with it like Draco used to do with his own mother. “C’mon Dad, everyone does it!” His voice was on the thin line between reasoning and begging. Draco hated beggars. 

He puts his hands on his hips. “Oh really? And say, if everyone jumped off a cliff, would you do it as well?” He raises an eyebrow at his son.

Potter snorts next to him. “Real original Draco.” Draco resisted the urge to stick up a naughty finger his way. “Let the kids go riding. You, Lily, and I will stay here and wait for them. She doesn’t like rollercoasters much.” He motions to the sleeping little girl in his arms. 

“Well, Lily seems to be the only child here with sense.” Draco looks around. Dozens of Muggle children were walking around with flushed faces and smiles, their eyes glowing as they pointed to the next monstrous attraction. This was what he wanted Scorpius to experience. What example would he be setting if he denied Scorpius from enjoying Muggle culture as his father had done to him?

Thinking of his father’s unrelenting bigotry always did the trick and before he knew it, he’s grabbing both Scorpius and Albus by the arms behind the men’s restroom. 

“Dad, where are we going?”

“Yeah Mr. Malfoy, the rides are back that ‘way!”

“You are an endless ocean of confusion Draco.”

He turns around and gives them all a piercing glare. “Hush, all of you! I need to focus. Potter watch my back.”

He wandlessly recites all of the body protection charms he can remember, keeping a tight hold on the two squirming children until the charms were done to his satisfaction. 

Draco takes a deep breath and nods. “There, that should hold you two until the end of the day.” He pinches the bridge of his nose tiredly. “Just be careful okay? Don’t come back here bruised and bloody or I swear I’ll—”

He’s cut off by Scorpius and Albus’ spontaneously hugging his midsection.

“Thanks Dad!”

“Yeah thanks Mr. Malfoy!”

Draco shakes them off. Damn kids and their stupidly adorable faces. “Whatever. Be back here in three hours, that’s five o’clock exactly. Now go on, scram.”

They don’t need to be told twice. “Vermin,” he mutters as he watches the two dart off to go to the first horrific looking contraception. 

He lets out a horribly surprised gasp when he feels Potter hug him from behind, squishing Lily as he does.

Draco lets himself give in to the hug for a single second before pulling away. He couldn’t afford to let himself get aroused around all of these people and Merlin especially not around Potter’s sleeping child.

“What was that for?” He asks, fixing his braid.

Potter shrugs. “I dunno. Let’s just say, it's for being a good friend.”

He feels himself deflate. Literally. But of course. He was a good _friend._ Nothing more. 

On Thursdays, he sits on an alphabet carpet and lets Potter tell him fabricated stories. On Fridays, he sits in the back of his classroom and tries not to stare too long at his mouth. On Saturdays, he lets Potter touch his hair and hug him, but only because they were such good _friends._

Trying to hide his displeasure, Draco pretends to scan the park for something interesting to do. Which, the most interesting thing he can think of was finding somewhere to eat and sitting down. His calves would be burning soon.

“Lets get ice cream,” he suggests and Potter laughs.

“Ice cream,” Lily echoes tiredly, her voice a tiny squeak around her suckled thumb. Draco won’t deny his affection for Albus, but there was something so adorably pure about Lily. He’s always wanted a little girl to spoil.

Potter kisses the crown of her red hair softly. “Sounds like a plan.”

* * *

Lily, as it turns out, actually _does_ like rollercoasters, but only the ones that are low to the ground and move at a snail's pace. Something called a merry-go-round is her favorite of the twenty they have been to and Draco and Harry are left watching her go on the thing five times over, each time as nauseating as the last.

Draco doesn’t think he can even look at another plastic horse by the time they find an ice cream shop. Whoever invented biscuit sales, playdates, and amusement parks should be hexed mercilessly. And if it was the same person—burned to death.

Though when he looks at the large array of ice cream flavors in the little tattered shop they find, he concedes that amusement parks may have _some_ redeemable qualities.

“I want every flavor.”

The teenage girl behind the glass ice cream counter blows her blue gum, letting it pop loudly in his face. “Sir, it’s the middle of January.”

Draco scoffs. As if that was going to stop him. “I’m aware.” He hardly needs to be reminded. He’s been continually casting heating charms since they’ve come to this sodding park. It’s been a pain the arse, but worth it. Draco hated the cold. Eight years sleeping in the Slytherin dungeons would do that to a person.

“I want every flavor too!” Lily trills excitedly, tugging at Potter’s hand with a renewed energy.

“But do you two _need_ every flavor?”

“Yes,” Lily and Draco answer in unison.

The shopgirl snaps her gum and with a tired sigh, begins to scoop one of every flavor into two cups. Draco hands the first one to Lily and Potter can hardly remind her to remember her manners before her mouth was full of strawberry ice cream. 

Little Lily Potter is possibly the messiest eater Draco’s ever encountered. She slurps and smears the ice cream all over her face, her spoon missing her mouth seven times out of ten. Potter has to grab a fat stack of napkins just to keep her face moderately clean but her nose is nearly permanently covered in a droplet of chocolate ice cream. 

It was, without a doubt, the cutest thing Draco had ever seen in his life. 

He’s always wanted a little girl, enough to consider going through another ten years of pretending to be straight. Though, when watching Lily, it was probably best that he didn’t have a girl. It would be far too easy to spoil her rotten. The world didn’t need to deal with another era of a spoiled Malfoy. 

“Worst eater ever,” Potter grumbles, not even looking as he reaches over to wipe Lily’s face. Somehow, it only makes it worse, with ice cream finding its way into her lashes.

Draco looks away and mentally creates a list of all the reasons why kids were terrible pests and certainly _not_ adorable.

“What are we gonna do next Dad?” She doesn’t give him a chance to speak when she excitedly suggests something called a fairy wheel. “That’s the only good ride left.”

The watch on his hand ticks disapprovingly at this suggested new adventure. It was 4:50 already, and the boys will be wondering where they were off to if they’re not back by five. Draco took punctuality very, very seriously.

Potter peers over to look at Draco’s watch. “Sure,” he shrugs, “We have a few more minutes to kill.”

No they did not. It would take them at least seven minutes to get back to the original spot they departed at and that’s only if they left at this very moment. “It’s nearly five,” Draco points out, tapping his watch. 

“So?”

“ _So_ what if Scorpius and Albus need us? What if something happens and we’re stuck? What if—”

Potter gives his leg a light kick under the table. “Don’t be a wuss Draco, live a little.” Draco scoffs, hardly believing that Potter would speak such language in front of his child. “It’s one ride, barely five minutes. I think if they’ve managed to survive nearly three hours without our assistance, they can survive for five minutes.”

He had a point. An annoying but logical point. 

“Fine. I’ll do the stupid wheel of faires.”

Lily and Potter snicker at him. “You mean ferris wheel?” Potter wheezes.

Draco waves a hand in the air. “Yes that. But that’s the most you’ll get out of me.”

Potter snatches his hand and entwines their hands together. “I’ll take it.”

He swallows nervously. Why does Potter do things like this? Touch his hair, touch his hand, compliment him about his voice? Blaise didn’t act like this nor has any straight man Draco’s ever known. He untangles their fingers, placing his hand out of reach under his thigh. 

In the back of his mind, Draco wonders if Potter is toying with him. If he knows he’s gay and was only flirting just to see how he’ll react. The thought makes his jaw harden and his teeth ache. 

He thinks he can say that he’s never been the most obvious character, but it was easy enough for Blaise and Pansy to figure it out in school. Who’s to say Potter hasn’t either?

With a gentle push, he shoves the ice cream aside. He really shouldn’t have gotten every flavor. “We ought to get going then, right Potter?”

Potter, who had been staring at him with intense green eyes, nods hurriedly after a moment. “Uh, yeah. We should go.” 

Draco tips the ice cream girl a generous amount as they walk out, the girl snapping her blue gum approvingly as she counts the notes.

He has to admit, he was sorely disappointed to find that this supposed ferris wheel actually has no fairies that Draco can see, and instead was a large, spinning circle that made his head hurt just by looking at it.

Children younger than Lily were lined up, eagerly waiting for their chance to get on the ride. As much as Draco tried to stow away his old prejudices, he secretly wonders if Muggles were just a bit more reckless than the wizarding population. Who in their right mind would allow a four year old on something like that?

“Someone looks scared.”

Draco’s stomach clenches when Potter’s deep voice grazes his ear. He glowers at him. Someone really needed to teach Harry Potter how to be a straight man. Someone should tell Potter that Draco refused to sacrifice any more of his sanity because of his own unawareness of how to act his sexuality. Whispering like that in his ear would give anyone the wrong ideas. 

“I’m not _scared,_ Potter. A bit of self-perseveration is not indicative of someone being scared.” He lifts his nose in the air. “Though it’s not like you would know anything about that would you?”

Potter’s not listening, instead grabbing him by the arm and yanking him up to the shortening line. 

“I want the edge seat!” Lily exclaims when they’re let in, pushing past the two of them to get to the furthest right. Draco gets in last, with Potter in between them. He groans. This ride better be short. There’s only so long he can manage to be this close to Not-An-Auror Potter’s body without thinking unsafe thoughts. 

A man with an overwhelming cologne comes by and rudely reaches over them to wrap something Potter calls a ‘seatbelt’ around all of their waists before quickly moving onto the couple ahead of them. 

Draco grips his side of the cart when it begins to suddenly move. As he watches over the side, he wonders how many ways it was possible for a person to die on a ferris wheel. Potter grabs his hair, tugging gently at the braid. “You alright there, Malfoy?”

His hands don’t leave his braid, fingers playing with the smooth, curved tail end of it. Maybe Potter was just naturally a touchy-feely person. Maybe not everything _means_ something with him. 

Draco nods, trying to relax in his seat as the thing takes them higher and higher up. He groans softly. “Peachy.”

“It’s just like flying on a broom,” Potter whispers to him, the words damp on his cheek. Pulling back, he smiles encouragingly as if to ease his nerves, not knowing that he’s only succeeding in lighting them on fire.

“You can control a broom with your own two hands,” Draco counters, still squirming in his seat as the ride takes them higher and higher into the fridge air. “If that kid in the box is the one controlling this thing, then we’re all more screwed than we think.”

Potter rolls his eyes. “Well, here’s something that might pique your interest. Look at that.” He points to the winter horizon just as they reach the top of the circular ride.

Birthed from the day’s dying sunlight is streaks of a vivid orange-pink that stains the evening sky. Next to him, brown skin turns a burning golden hue in the wake of its afterglow. A sigh quietly climbs up his throat. It’s criminal that Potter has no clue how gorgeous he looks like this. 

Down below, a young man gifts a girl his age with flowers and an overly large stuffed bear. Potter’s arm wraps around Lily, the other slung behind Draco’s back. Better judgment aside, Draco leans into it, the curve of his bicep pressing into the beginning of his braid.

Lily points to something in the distance. “Daddy look!”

Her and Potter laugh about some witch that was failing to blend in with Muggles and Draco felt himself slowly melting into a puddle of sappy waxing poetic thoughts that a Hufflepuff wouldn’t poke with a ten foot wand. 

“Draco look,” he taps Draco’s wrist and pokes at the poorly dressed witch down below. 

“I’m looking.” _At your lashes._

Potter looks away from the witch, his eyes locking with Draco’s. A joke that must have been about the witch falls flat on his tongue and for a moment Draco wonders if all of those touches and ear-whispers weren’t just Potter failing to live up to the societal expectations of a straight man. Draco was usually weary to look too deep into things that could always mean nothing, but maybe those nothing’s meant something. 

If the way Potter was staring at him was anything to go by, he’d say that he ought to look a little deeper into those supposed ‘nothings’. 

Potter swallows, once, twice. His hand is close enough to his thigh to feel it twitch nervously. Draco concedes that he may have some Gryffindor in him because he slides his own hand down so that their thumbs were just brushing against each other. 

It’s not enough to be interpreted as anything but a simple touch, but from the way Potter sucks in a quick breath, Draco knows that he feels it too. 

“Draco…” 

_Say it._

The cart they’re in feels to be growing smaller by the second as Potter tilts his head forward. The pad of his finger brushes against the smooth curve of his thumbnail.

Pink lips form the shape of his name again and Draco wants nothing more for him to say it. He leans as close as he dares, waiting for something, anything.

“Let’s go out, Draco.”

His breathless ‘yes’ is buried under Lily’s squealing about the young couple and from the talking of the other riders. He hopes to Merlin that he didn’t just imagine it. Because if his ears serve him correctly, and he thinks they do, then he was positive that Harry Potter just asked him on a date. One _not_ for friends.

It seems that the dim, evening stars were beginning to align just for him. 

Potter raises his brow and fixes him with a wide-eyed quizzical look. “Did you hear me? I said let’s go out— of the ride, that is. It’s over.”

Draco pulls back.

He can’t be fucking serious. 

His face burns when he realizes that the wheel has stopped and people are slowly being let out one by one from the ride. Something akin to blistering disappointment prickles his skin, though he has no reason to be disappointed. Potter was never his to be disappointed over in the first place. 

Gulping down his ego, he agrees a bit too quickly, “Yes, of course. Let’s go.”

“We have to do that again!” Lily insists once they’re off the wheel. Potter gently reminds her that it was past five and Scorpius and Albus were probably looking for them. Draco silently lingers behind them. Anyone looking close enough could see the pieces of his shattered pride trailing behind him. 

Someone ought to teach Draco Malfoy to never get his hopes up.

* * *

Scorpius and Draco look at the overcooked noodles on their plates with similar mournful expressions. Scorpius hasn’t even lifted his fork, staring at the hard, tasteless noodles with a mixture of repugnance and longing for a better meal to be magically placed in front of him. Draco, who had attempted to lead by example, ate exactly one noodle and immediately regretted it. It took every ounce of Charm School ingrained dinner etiquette not to spit it into his napkin and _Incendio_ his plate.

“Dad…” Scorpius starts, looking up from his plate pleadingly. 

He sighs. Spaghetti had been awful for months as it was, but Draco's negligence while cooking it tonight hadn’t helped improve their aversion to the dish in the slightest. It won’t help sitting here even longer, staring at their plates and letting the food grow cold. 

With a flick of his wand, the wallet in his hung cloak pocket comes flying and he dumps a fat wad of Muggle notes onto the table. “Here. Order yourself some of that triangle food.”

“You mean pizza?”

“Same thing.” He stands up, ready to drink his sorrows away in his office. No, smoke them away. That’s what he’ll do. “Get whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?” Scorpius breathes, disbelieving in his luck. Draco had made a point not to spoil Scorpius in the slightest, for fear that he may grow as entitled as he was as a child. For him to give his son the option to get absolutely anything that he wanted was unheard of.

“Whatever you want,” he assures.

He hears Scorpius’ whoops of joy as he makes his way up to his office.

The small bag of gillyweed that hadn’t been touched in months is a welcomed distraction from today’s wounds. Usually, he would never risk smoking with Scorpius in the house, but fucking Potter’s got his head so screwed up that his usual reservations are disregarded for a few hours of feeling lighter than air. 

Pansy would kill him if she found out he was smoking without her. So he vows to smoke enough for the both of them. 

The stars look especially beautiful tonight, nearly as bright as the tip of his wand as he lights the rolled gillyweed with lazy movements. 

Lying on his back, he uses his lit wand to trace the outline of Aquarius, his mind as cloudy as the white puffs he exhales. Against the black night, the contrast is especially distinct, the stars fading away underneath the smoke.

Merlin, he’s missed this. 

One star is still bright underneath the hazy white air. He holds up his wand, casting a _Lumos_. Closes one eye and then the other, watching the star shift when he looks at it from a different angle. 

Quill and notebook in hand, he outlines the constellation, his hands needing to do something productive when he starts thinking about stupid rides he should have never gone on.

It’s only a few minutes later when Draco regrets ever digging out that bag in the bottom of his desk drawer. Productivity is a wasted endeavor at a time like this. He can’t measure the parallax of Sadalmelik in Aquarius. His fingers were too unsteady and his mind too unfocused to even get the proper measurements of the semi-angle with his wand. Who cares about Aquarius or parallax's when hazy thoughts of Harry Potter were consuming his mind?

_Let’s go out, Draco._

He said it. Clear as day. Anyone would understand Draco’s train of thought. He said it while staring dead into Draco’s eyes, with his hand so close to his that Draco could feel the smooth shell of his fingernail on his thumb. 

He said it and Draco heard it. Or at least he thought he did. He’s thought a lot of things about Harry Potter, so maybe his mind was just playing tricks on him, somehow punishing him for thinking he could ever actually have Potter. 

Why couldn’t things ever just be easy with him?

“It’s freezing out here,” a voice complains.

Startled, Draco turns and sees half of Scorpius’ body is out onto the rooftop. He quickly Vanishes the gillyweed, holding out a hand to help him up. Though the cold shock had been good for his system, Draco casts a heating charm around them to circumvent the cold atmosphere. 

“Did you get your triangle food?” He asks once Scorpius is settled in next to him.

He rolls his eyes. “Pizza,” he mutters. “And not yet. Though Princess ate most of the spaghetti I gave him.” 

Draco opens his mouth to say that he wasn’t quite sure Pygmy Puffs should be fed overcooked spaghetti noodles, but it was already said and done. Princess could probably eat a Snitch and still be up and rolling around the next day. If not, there were plenty of other purple Pygmy Puffs for sale.

“Well,” he sighs, “At least someone enjoyed it.”

Scorpius smiles ruefully. “Enjoyed may be a bit of an exaggeration.” Draco rolls his eyes, smiling back at him. Merlin, it was going to dull in the house when Scorpius leaves for Hogwarts.

He scoots closer to Draco, his arms wrapped around his body; the cold seeping through the fabric of his thin jumper. Draco wraps his arms around him. He presses his nose into his son’s soft, lemon-scented hair. This was okay. He’s never needed anyone, not really. Not Astoria, or his father, or Potter. All he needs is Scorpius. If he was the only gift the universe ever decided to bestow upon him, Draco would gladly live with that.

It’s funny because Draco keeps waiting for his stars to align without realizing they already have.

“I love you,” he murmurs into his hair. He doesn’t say it nearly enough as he should. 

Instead of answering, Scorpius bites his lip, an unusual bout of shyness overcoming his face. He starts swaying side to side, hands braced firmly around his knees. “Can I ask you something? And can you promise not to get mad?”

Furrowing his brows, Draco wonders what it was that Scorpius could ask that would prompt Draco to get mad at him. Maybe it was a question about Astoria. Those questions never made him mad per se, just furious at her and the past. But not him, never Scorpius himself for inquiring about his mother. 

“Ask away.”

He takes a breath, shuddering slightly as he releases it as a white cloud in the wintery air. “You…you like men, don’t you Dad?” 

Draco snaps his body away, the biting cold rushing between them. His mouth hangs agape in shock despite the innocent look on his son’s face. That was _not_ the question he was expecting. “I—what?!”

“Don’t you?” 

“How…why…?” His muddled mind struggled to comprehend how on earth his son found out about his sexuality. He wasn’t embarrassed. He pressed a hand to his cold, reddening cheek. Okay, so maybe he was a little embarrassed. “What makes you ask that Scorpius?” His voice is higher pitched and shakier than usual. He picks up his quill and notebook and begins writing down nonsensical predictions in an attempt to give his shaking hands something to do.

Scorpius shrugs in the easy, nonchalant way children always do when adults freak out over seemingly simple things. “Just ‘cause.” He pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, examining him, “You look like you do.”

Now what in the hell was _that_ supposed to mean? 

“Why is everyone always saying that?” Draco grumbled. First Blaise in Fifth Year, now his own son. His black quill snaps and he barely bites back a curse. He liked that quill. Setting down his broken quill and his notebook on the rooftop, he remembers his promise to Scorpius. He wasn’t angry, but children weren’t always equipped to adequately read emotions.

_Breath. Focus. Unclench. Tell your son you’re gay._

As easy as making spaghetti.

“Look, Scorpius, you know I would never lie to you—”

“So don’t. Say it like it is.”

Draco presses his lips together at his bluntness. Oh dear Merlin, he just may have a Gryffindor on his hands. Either that or Albus’ nonexistent manners have been rubbing off on him. 

But regardless of his tactlessness, Scorpius is all ears, looking up at him with Draco’s own shining grey eyes. Not soft brown, like Astoria’s. No. A pale, honest grey that’s nearly translucent under the light of Aquarius. 

He’ll literally be lying to his own reflection if he doesn’t tell Scorpius now.

“Yes. I do.” He pauses, not wanting to overwhelm him. “Does that bother you?”

Scorpius looks thoughtful for a moment, fiddling with the worn edges of Draco’s parchment book as he formulates his response. “No, I don’t think so,” he admits. “Just as long as you aren’t sad like you were with Mum.”

Draco never thought of himself as sad with Astoria before. Mainly numb. And resentful. It was numbness that grew from her apathy and resentment that grew from his anger. If he ever was sad, it was when he realized that Scorpius couldn’t be trusted in the care of his own mother. Even then, he preferred anger over anything.

Call it immature, but Draco always thought that anger was a rather productive emotion. Useful, for moments when you need to find a house in London in a week. Or file for a divorce at the drop of a Knut. 

“I don’t think I am. But can I ask what prompted you to ask me this?”

_Please don’t say Harry Potter. Please don’t say Harry Potter—_

“You always look so happy around Mr. Potter.” 

Draco wills the heat crawling up his cheeks to leave. “Happy is a strong word…” Scorpius looks unconvinced. “It doesn’t matter much does it? Potter’s not interested and I have to respect that. I’m not either by the way.” He adds the last bit quickly, looking away as he does. 

He’s lying. 

He’s awful at it. 

When he’s older and making the same mistakes that Draco is now, he’ll make sure to warn him about finding the unavailable so alluring like he does. He’ll tell him that not even a Malfoy can have it all, that some things, regardless of their attractiveness, were not meant to be had.

Pursing his lips, Scorpius seems content to leave Draco’s white lie alone. For now. “If you say so. But can you promise me not to marry Mr. Potter if you do like him?” Scorpius asks, his hands clasped together pleadingly. “I love Al but it would be weird to have him as a brother.”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “Er…sure. We won’t get married. Not that I think you have to worry about that anyhow.” He wonders…does Scorpius…?

He laughs, shaking his head and ignoring the odd look he gets from Scorpius. Now _that_ would just be too ironic, wouldn’t it? Like father like son, each of them dealing with Potters of their own.

What luck would that be?

The smell of gillyweed on the tips of his fingers grows stronger as a blistering cold gust of wind rushes over his skin. He laughs harder.

What a fucking curse.

* * *

Draco swears Pansy can smell the gillyweed on his washed skin when she arrives through the Floo the next day, her narrow eyes narrowing further as she looks him up and down.

Suddenly nervous that Scorpius might rat him out unintentionally, Draco suggests in an overly enthusiastic tone, “Hey Scorpius, why don’t you go get Princess to show to Aunt Pansy?” That is if he was still alive. Who knows, that spaghetti could have done him in.

Scorpius rolls his eyes, that Astoria-like cross expression appearing on his face. “You don’t have to trick me anymore Dad, just say that you want to talk to Aunt Pansy in private.” He turns and heads up to his room.

Pansy snickers in his ear like a hyena. A strange mixture of fatherly embarrassment and Slytherin pride intertwine into a very confusing combination. Parenthood was a strange beast in and of itself.

He casts a _Muffliato_ around them just in case, because that boy was growing too clever for his own good with each passing day.

Pansy sits down in the kitchen chair Draco pulls for her, sighing all the while and rubbing her stomach. “Paranoid much?” She jokes breathlessly. As much as she tries to deny it, Draco knows this pregnancy was far harder for her than she will ever admit. 

“Pansy, he knows.”

“He knows?”

“He _knows._ ”

Pansy’s eyes widen and she nods slowly in understanding. “Ah, I see. So… how did he take to… you know,” she coughs, “ _knowing?_ ”

Draco spoons way too much sugar in his tea, just to give his hands something to do. “Fine. Great, I guess. Gah, I don’t know?! Sweet Salazar, he told me that I _looked_ like I liked men! Who says that?”

Pansy laughs loudly, hiccuping when her laughter dies down and is replaced with snickering. “Merlin, your kid is fucking hilarious.”

“Possibly, but I don’t know if he’s just saying that for my benefit or if he’s genuinely okay with it.”

There was a certain hardship in not knowing. Draco could ask Scorpius a thousand times whether he was okay with him being gay and still not actually know. It was infuriating enough to make him consider using Legilimency just to find out. 

Pansy rolls her eyes, mouth set into a bored line. “Oh here we go again,” she sighs. “Darling, have you ever considered the possibility of just not giving a fuck about what Scorpius thinks?” 

The tea in Draco’s hands spills and burns his skin. “What?!”

He _always_ cared about what Scorpius thinks. Why would he not? Scorpius’ opinion matters more to him than anyone’s, he can’t just _not_ consider it.

“First Lucius, now your son,” she tuts disapprovingly. “Draco, I’m not saying that you should never care about what he thinks, but I really want to emphasize that his opinion doesn’t hold as much merit as you think it does. Especially when it comes to who you decide to fuck. You’re single and handsome, the world is your gay oyster yet you concern yourself about what a ten year old thinks? Pfft, this one right here,” she points to her blossoming stomach, “will have to deal when I want to fuck Blaise or our side pieces.”

Disregarding her point, because she makes an annoyingly excellent point, he questions, “Side pieces?”

Pansy smirks into her tea. “Blaise and I have come to a bit of an agreement. I like women and he likes women. I’m sure you can figure out the rest.”

“I’m sure I can,” he murmurs in agreement. 

He assumed that his best friends engaged in threesomes long ago, so hearing this isn’t too much of a shock, neither is hearing of Pansy’s bisexuality. 

“Oi, but Scorpius told me about his teacher, Ana. She sounds hot. Maybe you could…?”

Blaise and Pansy wanting to shag his son’s teacher however? A very unpleasant shock to his already weary system. 

“Absolutely not.”

“Right, right,” she concedes, a barmy smile on her face. “You can’t blame me for trying though. I mean, if you’re fucking Harry Potter I want a teacher of my own to shag.” She holds up a finger to silence his protests. “And before you start raving to me about how you’re not sleeping with Potter, let me just point out that you should. And you definitely want to.”

 _He_ definitely wants to. The only problem is, does Harry?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If You Give A Mouse A Cookie was one of my favorite children's stories. 
> 
> Every comment and kudo is loved and appreciated!


	5. Total Eclipse

Draco’s chewing at the end of his new black quill; a nasty habit he’s started and broken several times every few months. His body is riddled with anxiety for no reason at all. Well, not no reason. It was pretty typical most days, the feeling normal enough for him to be able to push through it. However, for some reason, today was especially bad. 

So, like always, he heads over to his giant office wall to search for the answer. 

Today was the first day of February. The moon was still new and the daytime tides in the Atlantic had been a bit higher than normal, but nothing unusual for a New Moon during a winter month. He gazes down his list for Meteor showers, comets, any significant supernova’s, every planet’s orbit, and major moon cycle. 

But nothing. There’s literally nothing. His mind is making him search for something he can’t find, per usual. 

Draco sits back in his chair, exhaustion heavy on his shoulders. Maybe this was just his mind telling him to go back to that Mind Healer and to actually take the prescribed potions she gave to him. Maybe, but he’ll still probably let them collect dust in his medicine cabinet instead of actually taking them. Or maybe he’ll find a new place for them under his bottom drawer where he hides everything else he doesn’t want to see.

He goes to check on Scorpius, just to make sure that his sudden bout of anxiety wasn’t caused by his natural parental instincts. Of course, Scorpius is fast asleep, safe in his bed with his green dragon pressed against his cheek and a small spot of drool on his pillow. Safe and warm when he presses a kiss to his cheek. Draco slips out of his room on silent feet, casting a wordless _Silencio_ on the door as he closes it shut.

Sighing, he makes his way back into his office. Thirty-one was pretty young to go mad. He was hoping he made it past his Aunt Bellatrix’s age before he lost his plot like she did. Though maybe he isn’t that crazy yet, because when his fingers touch the brass doorknob of his office, a loud sound captures his attention. 

Wand drawn and a hex ready to fly on his lips, Draco throws open his door only to have his wand aimed at… Princess?

He growls. The purple Pygmy Puff rolls around on the ground with lazy movements, his tongue flicking in the air at him. Princess had a terrible habit of escaping his cage, so it’s not a surprise to find him prodding out the items in his study. Draco picks the dastardly thing up, refusing to melt in adoration when his pink tongue wraps affectionately around Draco’s wrist. “Come on you.” The Puff flicks his tongue around, the long appendage flicking at the papers on Draco’s neatly arranged wall. 

“Stop it!” He hissed, moving the Puff away from his wall. Several papers fall to the ground and he sighs, remembering to restick them on the wall once he puts Princess back in his cage. 

For an escape artist, Princess isn’t this much of a nuisance most of the time, so he chalks it up to being a one-time mishap. But next time this happens, he tells Princess that he will be very, very cross with him.

Once Princess is settled and nestled comfortably in his fuzzy blanket, Draco returns to his office, picking up the papers one by one and putting them back in neat, even rows. He takes several steps back to ensure that each row is orderly. Everything is just how it should be except for one non-Princess touched paper. Unable to let a single paper be out of place, Draco moves to straighten it, the loosen corner revealing his own neat handwriting on the paper it was covering.

_February 1st- Total Solar Eclipse at 3:34 pm._

The words hit him like a slap across the face. That’s what it was! No wonder why he felt like he was going to crawl out his skin. Granted, he still should probably take those potions, but nevermind that. St. Mungos was bound to see an uptick of hospital cases from wizards and witches performing simple heating and cooling charms.

He should tell Pansy and Blaise. He should, but the only person he can think of to warn first is Harry. Racing to the fireplace in his office, he watches the flames turn green, waiting anxiously for Harry to notice him in the fire.

_Come on Potter, answer me._

He nearly cries in happiness when Harry’s face appears in the flames. Not giving him the chance to talk first, he exclaims, “Potter!”

Harry waves at him, beckoning him forward with a look that reads almost like relief. “Malfoy, come in.” 

Draco comes through, landing in Harry’s living room on unsteady feet. His body freezes mid-wobble when his eyes land on Ginevra Weasley who was spooning an exuberant amount of sugar into her cup and blinking in surprise at the sight of Draco looking frumpled and crazed in her living room. 

Swallowing nervously, Harry has to tug on Draco’s hand to get his attention. “Is everything okay?” 

“I…” Ginevra is watching them so intensely he thinks he might just die from the swelling dread building in his chest. Her red eyebrows rise a little higher up her face with each breath. “I…”

“Draco?” Harry’s examining him nervously like just might detonate if touched wrong. Yet he risks brushing his arm with a light finger and Draco remembers why he was here in the first place.

“There's a Total Eclipse occurring at 3:34 today so whatever you do, do not under any circumstances cast a heating or cooling charm for the entire day!” Draco says in a single breath. “If you cast one directly at 3:34 you’ll just be asking to land yourself in St. Mungo’s. Anything at all that will control the temperature or the atmosphere just don’t do it!”

Harry and Ginevra share a silent look from across the room and he can feel the urge not to laugh at him shimmering under the surface of it. Draco doesn’t mind; he’s dealt with people’s odd reactions to his warnings for years now. He’s estimated that nearly sixty-four percent of the cases at St. Mungo’s could be prevented with a bit of astronomical foresight. So it doesn’t matter what others think because he was always right. 

Unless there was a Blood Moon out. Then he was usually criminally wrong. 

There’s a sharp intake of breath. Then Ginevra is laughing, sounding much like Pansy after she’s had one too many mimosas. 

“Malfoy, I haven’t seen you for over ten years and this is the first thing you say when I see you?” She shakes her head, burying her face back into the Quidditch magazine she was reading. “Harry, darling, your boyfriend is quite the handful I see.”

Both Draco and Harry choke. Harry on his tea and Draco on his saliva. “Boy— what?”

Ginevra rolls her eyes, flipping the page of the paper with a flick of her finger. “I’m sorry, were you two _not_ dating?” She blinks innocently up at them.

Heart racing, Draco slowly edges back towards the Floo, ready to leave in a moment's notice. He doesn’t know if the edge to her voice is sarcasm or fury, and he doesn’t want to be around to find out. The women Harry keeps in his company have a mean right hook. 

Though to be fair, he and Harry haven’t done anything wrong. Draco knows he’s married and he’s been purposeful in keeping his secret crush on him under wraps. 

“Not yet,” Harry hisses pointedly at her, staring her down with a gaze equivalent to a crup ready to attack. Ginevra’s smile is wiped off her face and she winces into her tea, mouthing a sorrowful _‘sorry’_ to Harry.

Draco blinked owlishly. Not yet? 

“Potter…” Harry shifts uncomfortably, looking ready to bolt or throw up.

A loud explosion and high pitched scream capture their attention. He looks over to see Ginevra picking the glass of her lilac teacup out of her hair and bloodied freckled skin. She gives them a pained smile. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you were right Malfoy.” She hisses in pain, “I think I need to go to the Healer’s.” She picks herself up, eyes aimed at Harry pleadingly. “Come with?”

Oh no he didn’t. He wasn’t stupid. Draco didn’t care if Ginevra was bleeding out of every orifice, because Harry Potter had some explaining to do.

“ _You_ ,” he pokes a hole into Harry’s chest, feeling it rise and fall anxiously.

“Me?”

“You! You fucking stay. Ginevra is a grown woman, she can Floo herself to St. Mungo’s.” Harry’s back falls flat against the squeaking cupboard as Draco pushes his finger further and further into his chest. He glances over at Ginevra, terror clear as day in his eyes. 

Ginevra gives him a wilting look as she tries to staunch some of the blood pouring out of her cheek. “Sorry.” She looks at her bloody hands and curses. “I should probably go.” Long after she’s gone, he can still hear her hisses of pain as she tried to pick glass out of her skin.

He crumples under Draco’s finger. “Please don’t kill me. I have three kids.”

“Potter. Explain.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair, his wand tapping nervously against his thigh. “Do I have to?”

Draco growls, “Yes, you—!” He pinches his nose. Despite the Eclipse occurring today, there was no risk of a detrimental magical occurrence or astronomical reason for why he shouldn’t let his emotions run wild and consume him. But there was a moral one. Letting his anger and frustration out on Harry would not do either of them any good.

So he tries again, his voice softer. “Harry,” he takes a deep breath. Remembers to be gentle. “Is there anything you would like to tell me?”

Harry runs a hair through his hair again, this time tugging at the short ends. Biting the inside of his red cheek, he says, “I never really know what to say to you Draco. Honestly.” Draco’s mouth twitches. That wasn’t what he was expecting to hear. “I tried, I really did, but I’m not the best with words.”

Draco looks at him as if he’s grown two extra heads. “You’re a sodding English teacher.”

Harry puffs his cheeks like a fish, looking like Scorpius when he gets caught doing something naughty. “Ah, you got me there,” he admits, scratching gruffly at his beard. Draco is unimpressed by his humor and he lowers his eyes in embarrassment, his entire body deflating. “Look, I didn’t want to try anything with you until Ginny and I’s divorce was finalized.”

This takes him by surprise. “Divorce?”

“I was finishing the last of the papers that day when Al fell out of the tree.” So that’s what Ana was referring to being a shame. Draco sniffs. Interesting. “But it’s done now, obviously, since I tried and failed to ask you out on the ferris wheel.” He hits his forehead with his palms in embarrassment. “Don’t tell anybody about that, will you? It’s not one of my finest moments.”

If Harry wanted to talk about embarrassing moments, Draco thinks he has him beat. There’s nothing more humiliating than engaging in an entire conversation with not one but _two_ people with your fly down. His teenage self would have hexed himself senseless at the mishap.

“Why are you divorced?”

Harry Potter was the very last person he would like to get divorced. He had the whole nine— a pretty wife, a nice home, a good job, and better than average kids. Well…the kids part can be debated. But just why? Wasn’t he happy being a part of his best friend’s family? Wasn’t he happy having everything? 

Harry cocks his head. “I could ask you the same thing,” he points out.

Draco feels his body shut down and the edges of his mouth turn downwards. “It’s… this is not about me,” he waves off, even though it actually was, “Plus I asked you first. Why are you divorced?”

Harry gestures to the kitchen table, indicating for him to sit. After a moment’s hesitation, he does, assuming that his too was a long story. He sits in the same spot as he did last time he was here, red eyed and with Firewhiskey for blood. Sitting in the seat doesn’t feel nearly as invasive as it did last time, now that he knows he wasn’t sitting in his wife’s seat. Or putting his hands on her dinner table.

He clasped them together now, waiting patiently and silently as Harry settled into his own seat. 

Then he sighs. “So,” Harry says, “I don’t know if you noticed, but Ginny is very, very gay.”

Draco’s mouth parts in shock. So it wasn’t such a long story at all. “Oh,” is all he can say as he attempts to gather his bearings. “Um, no I haven’t.” He raises a cautious brow, not knowing whether it was appropriate to make a quip, but deciding to do so anyway. “So… like you then?”

Harry barks out a laugh. Appropriate then. “No, not like me.” Draco nods, trying to keep his disappointment from breaking him. Harry shakes his hands vigorously in an attempt to backtrack. “No! Not like that, I just mean that I’m not gay, just bisexual.”

Relief never felt sweeter. Bisexual. That was a good word; safe.

“So that’s why you two got divorced then?”

Harry shrugs. “That’s part of it. Truthfully, we had grown apart years ago. We had gotten married too young anyway— everyone was still riding post-war high, I wanted to officially be a part of the Weasley family, and she naively tried to pretend that she was just close ‘friends’ with Luna Lovegood.” He laughs to himself, as if the entire thing was a hilarious joke and not the decimation of the life he built with a woman he raised three children with. “They’re together by the way. You should see them, they are arguably the most annoyingly cute couple I’ve seen in my life.” He fake gags but Draco can see the genuine fondness underneath his actions.

“So, you’re not mad?”

Snorting, he says, “How could I be? We’ve always wanted the best for each other. And if this was the best, then so be it. I won’t deny that I miss the comfort, but I like to think there’s value in going outside of your comfort zone.” He looks directly at Draco as he says this.

His head was spinning. Nevermind the fact that he likes Harry, and _Harry likes him back_ , but how can it just be so easy for him? Harry and Ginevra’s simple divorce made his sound like hell itself. Can it really be so simple? That easy?

“Oh,” he breathes. “Okay.” He looks down at his joined hands. The question is stuck in his throat and he doesn’t know how to ask it without sounding like a fool. 

So instead he clamps his mouth shut and lets the soft pidder padder of rain hitting the roof shingles speak for him. Because how can he ask Harry Potter why in the hell would he want him, when he could have the world?

With the stealthiness of a ghost, Harry’s gotten closer, his arms brushing against his. Draco almost shivers when he feels the dark hair on Harry’s arm brush against his own nearly hairless forearm. His heart is racing wildly in that same way it does right before he’s about to have an anxiety attack—hard and fast in his chest—but he doesn’t feel like he’s dying like he usually does. Quite the opposite in fact. He feels wholly alive. He feels like he’s found what he was looking for.

Warm breaths puff out against his cheek. “I wanted to tell you, I really did. But God Draco, you’re not the easiest person to talk to.”

He bristles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Harry laughs softly, the sound so close to his ear that his spine tingles from the damp, shifted air. “My point exactly.” Draco scowls. Whatever. “I don’t mean it in a bad way either. This is the only time I will ever admit this, so listen up, but…you can be kind of intimidating.”

He lets out a shaky snort. “Me? Intimidating to a Gryffindor? And not just any Gryffindor, but _the_ Harry Potter, arguably Godric Gryffindor’s bastard son? You’re barking mad Potter.” 

He’s not intimidating. Just cautious.

Warm fingers trail along the raised skin on his arm and this time he actually does shiver. The calluses on his hands felt as delightful as he imagined them to feel. “No. I’m not.” He doesn’t realize it, but he was edging dangerously close to his faded Dark Mark. 

He wonders if he knows this. He wonders if he cares at all. 

Draco’s eyes follow a path from his hands, his tanned arms, all the way up to his lips. The same lips that he’s watched smirk at his failures, laugh with Scorpius, command a room with a single word. Green eyes watch him, the hue beautiful and soft around the edges from the aurora of misty grey and yellow light pouring into the kitchen. 

Sometimes, a Total Eclipse can release not only feelings of anxiety and dread, but feelings of yearning too. The feeling of needing something that you’ve been wanting for a very, very long time. 

So when Draco’s lips find themselves pressed against Harry’s, he’s not surprised to find the unyielding urge tamed at once. However, he is surprised to feel the heat coiling in the pit of his stomach burning in a Harry Potter induced scorching inferno. He finds what he’s been needing in Harry’s mouth.

A cautious hand travels up the base of his spine and onto the tail end of his braid, while the other takes no time to bury itself into the looser locks messily undone around the nape of his neck. The feeling of someone else’s magic engulfing him is so strong and vibrant, that Draco finds himself caring less about the placement of his hands and more about the warmth exuding from Harry’s body. 

Foreign hands roam down the length of his braid and down to the crease of his thigh and Draco moans, his own hands unconsciously inching slowing towards the pulsing heat curled between Harry’s legs, moving closer and closer to his—

_“Dad!”_

Harry gasps and Draco jumps away as they stare at Lily’s surprised face staring back at them. The silence is so strong that Draco can feel himself melting in his seat from embarrassment like a naughty first year. Fuck, he had completely forgotten about Harry’s kids.

Then she opens her mouth, pointing at their red faces with a stubby little finger. _“Oooo!”_ Lily jeers, muffling her giggles behind her hand as she runs away, her little legs carrying as fast as she can up the stairs.

Harry runs a hand through his hair. “Bloody hell. We’ve just been caught by the world’s biggest tattletale.”

Draco bursts out into peals of laughter because it was all so ridiculous. The feeling of Harry’s lips is still ghosting along the skin of his pleasantly swollen lips, a distinct tingling feeling that makes his giddy laughter slightly hysterical from the natural high of happiness. It feels good; _of course_ it feels good. From what he remembers, kissing is _supposed_ to feel good. He laughs even harder.

It’s ridiculous, because this was his first kiss in twelve years. And it was interrupted by a tattling seven year old girl.

But Harry doesn’t know this. He doesn’t know that Draco hasn’t felt another pair of lips against his own in over a decade or the shock of how good a simple kiss was enough to take him off guard. He just laughs with him, leaning against his body for support as they cackle over Lily’s shocked face.

“Do you think she’s traumatized?” Draco wheezes.

He snorts. “Merlin, I hope not, because I plan on kissing you for as long as you’ll allow me to.” His thumb brushes over his bottom lip, moving back and forth across the smooth expanse.

“What exactly are you asking, Harry?”

“I’m asking if we can give this a try?”

Draco wants to try kissing him again. That tingling feeling is addictive in a way he’s never expected. The heated friction of Harry’s beard scratching against his mouth still sings in the pores of his skin. For that alone, he’s willing to give just about anything a try. Twelves years of nothingness will do that to a person, he supposes. 

Nuzzling against the soft fabric of Harry’s jumper he smells the earthy scent of woods on his skin and embedding in the stitches of his clothing. 

“I’m in if you are.”

* * *

“So.” Harry, looking unusually uncomfortable, points to his flowery pink plate with a chopstick, “Sushi?” 

Draco gives him a thin smile, holding up the pink and black rolled food in between his chopsticks. “Sushi,” he agrees. 

It was their first date and it couldn’t have been more awkward. 

He was trying, far too hard, and so was Draco for that fact. But if he was being completely honest, the bleached blonde that stood him up could be sitting in Harry’s seat at this very moment and it wouldn’t feel any different.

Draco’s dressed in his usual posh clothing, though for some reason, the fabrics seemed to cling onto his skin far more than he was used to them doing. Harry looked stiff and uncomfortable in his crisp light blue buttoned-up, with even his hair looking unnaturally overdone from a plethora of hair grooming spells. His shiny new leather shoes squeaked with each movement of his feet and with the thick silence between them, Draco had counted 29 squeaks in total. 

What was there to say, anyway? Neither were particularly new to dating, but they were overwhelmingly new to dating _each other_. For Harry’s sanity, they agreed beforehand that there will be no talk about children or anything child related during this dinner. That meant that speaking about Harry’s work fit under the restricted subjects list as well and Draco couldn’t tell his usual story about a mishap between Scorpius and a file of downy peacock feathers. 

It was dreadfully hard trying not to talk about Scorpius, who consumed his life presently. Consequently, they couldn’t talk about the past either, one that was still heavy and tattooed on Draco’s skin and still scarred and evident on Harry’s forehead.

So instead they both opt to eat in silence. Draco, neatly eating his sushi with his chopsticks and Harry fumbling with the two sticks like a five year old. His fingers do an odd little dance as he tries to organize them into a suitable position. 

After his tenth attempt to grip the food with the sticks and watching the roll slide out of his grasp, he sets the paired utensil down and mopes. Draco rolls his eyes. Good Merlin, they should have agreed not to act like children as well. 

“Just use your fork, Harry.” 

Harry gapes at him like he just suggested eating with his feet. “No! I can do it, I just need to focus.” He bites his lip, his face an intense look of concentration as he tries once more to lift the food with his chopsticks. It looked promising, the food stuck into the end of the sticks as he slowly brought it off the plate and to his opened mouth. Draco resists the insatiable schoolboy urge to kick the table and make him drop it just to see his reaction. 

Instead he watches as Harry drops the sushi right before it touches his lips. He bangs a fist on the table. “Fuck!” Several patrons stop their chattering to stare quizzically in their direction. Thankfully, Muggles tended not to stare too long at their oddness and resumed dining as normal.

Draco leans over and captures the sushi in his own chopsticks, easily bringing the food up to Harry’s mouth to eat. The action would be somewhat romantic, had Harry not pouted like his ten year old son. “How come _you_ know how to do it yet I don’t? I refuse to believe that you’re more cultured than me,” He mumbles around his baby-feed sushi roll. 

“Maybe I’m just better than you.” Harry narrows his eyes. “It pays to be a snob,” Draco shrugs. It also pays to go to a racially diverse Charm School.

“Yeah, well, I’m the Desi here, I’m sure I could learn.”

“No one’s stopping you,” he points out. 

Harry snorts, “Yeah? Well why don’t you try learning new things with three—” He coughs guilty. “Er, nevermind.” He pops another sushi roll in his mouth, this time disregarding both the chopsticks and fork completely and popping it into his mouth with his hands.

Draco sighs.

This was pointless. Who are they, outside of their children? It was a bit scary to consider; Draco’s identity had been cultivated around being a father for so long, he’s almost forgotten about the things he used to do. What was he, underneath the ten years spent raising Scorpius?

What if there was nothing there at all?

He tugs at his shirt uncomfortably, sure that Harry could sense it, could _see_ it, that outside of Scorpius, Draco was an empty vessel of a person. 

Harry’s shoes squeak again, as they fall once more in the uncomfortable silence that surrounded them before.

He sets down the chopsticks with a weary sigh and unsteady hands. “I’m sorry, I just can’t do this.”

Harry’s eyes snap up from his plate, his face bloodless at Draco’s outburst. He wipes his full mouth with his napkin. “Is it because of the food? Because I can try the chopsticks again it just may take a while…”

Draco rolls his eyes digging his hands into his perfectly plaited hair. “It’s not because of the sodding chopsticks. It’s just…” he shakes his head, trying to articulate his words carefully lest they have another misunderstanding like the infamous ferris wheel ride. How can he accurately tell Harry that the intensity between them has somehow grown stale in the few hours since they were snogging like teenagers in Harry’s kitchen? 

“This isn’t us, you know? Fancy dinners, sushi, and whatever the hell that is—” he points to a large metal contraception that was glowing rainbow colors several yards away against an empty wall. He scowls. “Seriously, what the hell is that?” The thing was horrifically ugly.

Harry swallows his food and studies it. “I think it’s a jukebox.” At Draco’s confused expression he elaborates, “It’s an American Muggle thing that was popular in like… the 60’s maybe? You can request songs and it’ll play them. Though I don’t know why it’s in a sushi restaurant of all places—”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just… let’s just get out of here Harry.”

He was desperate to leave for somewhere, anywhere else. Something about this crowded environment was biting at his nerves and he refuses to concede that the culprit was his fictitious anxiety this time. No, they needed to be somewhere else, like in a house with the rain thumping rhythmically against the rooftops and grey light pouring in from the windows. Somewhere less…this.

Not bothering to count, Draco throws down a stack of Muggle notes, ignoring Harry growling that _he_ was going to pay for the sodding sushi, tugging him out of the restaurant and into the windy night.

“Where are we going?” Asks Harry behind him.

“I…” The wind blows long strands of blonde in his face, covering his mouth and eyes. “I don’t know.” All he knows is that he doesn’t think they were quite made for posh dinners and button down shirts. He wants to be somewhere where they could let go of their pretenses, erase their former selves, and just be. Potter and Malfoy would have never been able to do that without fear of being let down or rejected. 

But Harry and Draco? He thinks they have a real shot. However, he doesn’t think sitting in stuffy sushi restaurants and fake smiling at each other was the way to get there.

Draco grips Harry’s hand. Suddenly, he knows exactly where they need to be. He was wrong before. Draco knew who he was outside of being a father. All he had to do was show him.

“Actually, nevermind,” he says, holding out his arm to Side Along. “Come with me, I know just the place.”

* * *

His home is dark when they Apparate into the bottom floor, with only small particles of dust glittering in the moonlight to greet him. With Scorpius at his mother’s for the night, the home is a manifestation of his worst fears. A cold, empty house devoid of the presence of another person. 

Then Harry shifts next to him and he remembers that he’s not as alone as he thinks he is.

Draco reaches his hand out for Harry’s. “Follow me.”

Hands entwined, Draco leads him up the dark staircase, past the empty walls that have yet to be filled with art and life, and into his study on the third floor. There’s a surprised gasp behind him and he turns to find Harry gaping at the fluttering star constellation on Draco’s black office ceiling.

“ _Draco._ ” 

The dragon constellation twinkles in response to Harry’s awed whisper. “Did you do this yourself?” His fingers twitch, as if they were ready to reach out and try to grab one of the twinkling faux stars above. 

Draco nods proudly. “One of my best creations. It helps me during the late nights I’m up conducting research. Good for a bit of inspiration, you know?” Though maybe he wonders if he should have put some of that energy into finding suitable art for his home.

Harry doesn’t even blink in response. His face glows under the false constellation, the luminous quality of Draco's magical creation reflecting back in the pupils of his eyes. He’s there, everywhere—on the rim of his glass, the black of his hair, the shadows of his face. His namesake has made its mark across Harry’s face.

“Stay there.” He doesn’t need to tell him. Grabbing the wood self holding ladder, Draco places it up to the hidden fixture in the ceiling. He looks back every so often as he grabs a bottle of wine and a blanket, just to reassure himself that Harry was really there, in his office staring up at his constellation like it was Godric Gryffindor himself.

He watches him all while he climbs up the ladder and disappears onto the top of the roof, not wanting to let go of this vision for as long as he can.

“Draco?” Looking down, he sees the reflective black rim of Harry’s glasses is visible from his spot on the roof. “Draco, where are you?”

He jumps a little when Draco shoves his head into the opening and reaches an arm down, smiling like a mad scientist finally showing an outsider his creation. “Climb up and take my hand.”

Harry looks at his hand. Then at the door. Then at Draco’s hand again. 

He laughs. “Intimidated Potter?”

A glimpse of that old rivalry flashes in Harry’s eyes. Draco feels something stir in the pit of his stomach. God, he could make him do anything with that look.

“Never.”

Strong, steady, warm. Harry’s hand in his is a pleasure he will never grow tired of.

The wind blows through his hair the moment his head appears through the opening of the rooftop. Harry looks around, wide-eyed as he takes in the tiny utopia Draco’s cultivated for himself. 

The rooftop itself is hardly anything spectacular. It’s plain; a few vined plants with protection charms casted on them so that they don’t get ruined by the weather. A solid, white flooring. A large telescope next to the steaming chimney. It’s nothing special, nothing particularly comforting or warm, but that’s okay, because the point wasn’t to look at the décor of the rooftop, it was to look _up._

“This is incredible Draco,” Harry breathes, his eyes glued to the shining sky above. “How come I never see so many stars where I live?”

“Light pollution,” Draco laughs, sitting down next to him on the stoop. “The bane of every astronomer’s existence. Plus, this property was specifically selected because it’s on one of the highest hills in London. Living on Shooter’s Hill does have its perks.”

“No magic?” He sounds skeptical.

Draco smiles, shrugging secretively. “Maybe a little.” No one else in all of London has the privilege of seeing the stars and moon as clear as Draco does. Of course he used magic and lots of it, in fact. 

The black sky is especially luminous tonight, putting on a radiant exhibition for its spectators. 

He hands Harry a glass of wine and part of his thick green blanket. Harry instantly relaxes, the tight button up appearing less constraining around his neck under the moon’s pale rendering and black, starry night. 

“Mmm, good wine,” he nods approvingly.

Draco clinks his glass with Harry’s. “It pays to be a snob.”

“It absolutely does,” agrees Harry, smacking his lips at the delicious taste of Château Merlot on his tongue. “Mm, so how did you do this? London’s not particularly known for its high altitudes.”

Draco swings his braid over his shoulder, a coy smile emerging on his lips. “Well I didn’t actually charm the sky, if that’s what you’re thinking, I simply…” He frowns. “You know what? I think I may bore you to death with the details and magical theories involved but just know it’s essentially the reverse of a Disillusion charm plus a Magnifying spell. A very strong Disillusion charm and Magnifying spell.” It took weeks to create the telescope-like charm and even longer to cast it and place the intricate spells needed so that it wasn’t viewable to Muggles. Just thinking about the months-long process exhausted him. 

“But Merlin was it worth it,” he sighs in awe. “You could go to the peaks of Chile and still not find a sky as clear as this.” No, only his little slice of the sky is this clear and this perfect. 

That warm, tingling feeling he gets whenever he reveled in the beauty of his magical night sky and it’s creations swirls in the cavern of his chest. It’s funny, because it feels a lot like when he kissed Harry.

While he’s looking up at the stars, sighing at its beauty, Harry’s looking at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling from smiling at Draco’s delight. 

“You love this, don’t you?”

Draco sniffs, “It's alright.” For some reason, his Slytherin-bred instinct to deny outwardly loving something kicked it.

Harry sits back on one elbow, unconvinced by his feigned disinterest. “Alright eh?” He raises an eyebrow. “I always thought that you’d end up a greasy old bugger like Snape.” Draco’s throat tightens a bit at his name. So did he. “So tell me, why astronomy?”

He has him stumped. Hell, no one's ever asked him that. Sometimes people ask questions about his profession or his research and he would answer them, all the while watching as their eyes glaze over from dead boredom, mouths closing in perpetual apathy. But no one’s particularly cared about the _why_ in the matter. It just was. 

But Harry’s eyes are so bright and waiting, that the impulse to give in wins out. “Well, there’s my name of course.”

A playful tug on his braid. “Of course.”

He cocks his head, “And then? I don’t know. I’ve always been drawn to space and stars. Like most children.”

“And?” Harry drawls, refusing to take such a simple response as an answer. “I know there has to be some other reason. You never were the type of person to dedicate yourself to something unless you were very passionate about it.”

Draco snorts, thinking of the Potter Stinks badges. Yeah, Harry was right about that one.

His hands wrap around his glass of wine, swirling around the Merlot in the bowl. “Well, I guess because it's the one thing everyone else takes for granted.” He smiles, though nothing he was about to say was worth smiling over. Sitting up on the domes of his knees he excitedly states, “For example, did you know in about 3.5 billion years, the Sun will die? Nothing can stop it from happening either. Then there’s always the chance that the Earth could be swallowed in a black hole. Meteorites come close to Earth’s atmosphere nearly once a year, yet no one makes a big fuss over it. Yet all it takes is a big enough meteor coming into Earth’s gravitational pull and _boom!_ ” Harry jumps. “Humankind is destroyed forever!”

From the look on Harry’s face, Draco wonders if he should stop speaking before the sushi makes a reappearance. “I think I’m having a… fuck, what are those crises called?”

“An existential crisis.” Harry nods and points in agreement. Draco laughs. He knows he probably sounds a little bit mad. He probably is; most astronomers he’s met are in some capacity. “I think I have one of those at least once a day!”

Harry’s fingers play with the soft tail of his braid. “So why do it?”

Draco smiles fondly, feeling the excitement bubbling under his sternum and up his throat. “Because it’s beautiful, that’s why! What other entity do you know can control whether the Earth can sustain life or not? Or control the other billions of galaxies in the universe? Not the Ministry, or Voldemort or blood supremacists, that’s for sure. The universe is limitless—no amount of money, magic, or convincing can allow anyone to thoroughly understand it or control it. It is, the one thing that is entirely unattainable.”

Harry’s silent, a thoughtful expression on his face as he takes this in. Then he says, “I knew it, you bloody love this.” 

Draco smacks him lightly on the shoulder, sitting his wine glass to the side and boldly taking his place in the crook of Harry’s outstretched arm. Not prepared for the sudden closeness, Harry startles in surprise before recovering to wrap his arms around him. “Shove it Potter.” The words are supposed to sound far harsher than they do, instead they come out as a content sigh. 

He can’t help it. Not-An-Auror Potter is incredibly warm when he holds him. 

“You’ve got me; I’m a complete swot. Run and tell Granger she’s not alone.” 

Harry’s rumbling laughter vibrates against his cheek and he sighs under his breath. Harry’s tugging at the base of his braid again with shy fingers, and Draco wants to tell him that it’s okay to touch his hair if he wants to. Hell, he’ll let him do a lot more things if he wants to.

“There’s nothing wrong with loving or being excited about something other people find odd,” Harry wisely points out, sounding exactly how Draco imagined him sounding in the classroom. “It’s important to be passionate about what you do, otherwise what’s the point of doing it?”

_Bloody hell, don’t ruin the moment, don’t ruin the moment, don’t—_

“Is that why you quit the Aurors?” 

His body tenses underneath him, the flesh contracting as he sucked in a breath. Draco wishes he could say that he regrets asking, but Merlin, he was far too curious for his own good. Why is it that Harry bristles whenever he mentions the Aurors?

Swallowing nervously, he sees Harry’s jaw set into a strict line even underneath his beard. “No. That’s not why.”

The hand on his braid retracts. 

“I... I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—” He does as his Charm School tutor always told him to do and pushes his pride down his throat, realizing that regardless of his curiosity, this was none of his business. “Sorry.”

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he tries to think of something that can return them back to the playful air they were having before Draco decided to be an insensitive prick and ruin it, but nothing comes to mind. It’s clear that he didn’t want to talk about it before, if his snappish was anything to go by.

He should apologize again. He begins to, but Harry’s not looking at him.

They sit in a silence so uncomfortably thick that Draco’s almost ready to hex himself when Harry says, “The reason I’m not an Auror, Draco, is that I couldn’t _be_ an Auror.”

He waits, curious, patient, and achingly still for him to continue. Harry Potter could do anything. Sometimes. If he wanted to. Maybe with Granger’s help too.

Harry closes his eyes, his face tight as if he’s trying to ward off some bad memories. “I passed every exam except for one, the psychiatry exam.” His fingers drum against his thigh, one, two, three times before he speaks again. Then he smiles. “Believe it or not, but wars have a tendency to leave a mark.”

Draco doesn’t need to be convinced. Or reminded.

“It’s funny, because it was only when I was about to become the one thing I wanted to be most, I failed.”

Draco smiles, hesitant and unsure if he’s allowed to do so. “I bet that was quite a shock.” His younger self is sneering in delight that Harry actually does have an Achilles Heel, but his older, smarter self remembers that he doesn’t need to be aching with spiteful elation, they weren’t in competition anymore. Unless there was another biscuit sale.

He nods, laughing a little under his breath. “It was, but honestly, looking back on it, it was the best thing that could have happened. Had I not failed I would have never known that I was dealing with PTSD.” Draco feels something sink uncomfortably in his stomach. Possibly, it was his swallowed pride. Harry tsks softly. “I would have never gone to see a Mind Healer, or think to work in Muggle London. I would have never started working with children as part of my therapy, never became a teacher and be here with you.”

Ignoring the last disgustedly sweet sentiment at the end, something about the rest of his statement didn’t sit right with him. How can he just talk about it like it was some strangely _positive_ occurrence? 

“And before you ask, it’s not like that anymore,” Harry assures him though it doesn’t do much good. “There are times, I’ll admit, but all I would ask is for you to not mention Aurors. Ron knows this too. Crazy enough, learning that I had PTSD was just about as traumatic as dealing with it.”

He doesn’t quite know how to respond to Harry’s openness that he specifically asked for. He focuses on finding the brightest star he can to avoid answering. Every time he says the word ‘PTSD’ he feels a little part of him cringe. 

Harry relaxes his tense body and he sighs in contentment, looking as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “Whew. Well, I don’t know about you, but I feel much better now that I told you that!” Those damn dimples appear. He rolls over to his side, head in hand and grins stupidly. “Being honest feels great.”

“Amazing,” Draco croaks out. Fucking weirdo. Being honest was hell.

“So, tell me. Now that I bared my soul I believe it’s time for you to bare yours.” Draco recoils. 

“Uhh…” He looks at the half empty bottle of wine. He’ll need more to get through the rest of this. His Mark feels unusually itchy.

“Why did you get divorced?”

Draco scrambles away from Harry’s body and warmth. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he levels him with a cautious gaze. “Why do you want to know about that?” A sliver of his old nastiness that he can’t push back down in time works its way back into his voice. 

“Isn’t that we’re doing, being honest with each other?”

“Yes but—”

“But what?”

Draco opens his mouth. Closes it. But nothing, that’s what. Harry had been honest with him, far more than Draco could ever be with his own Mind Healer years ago. More than he dared to be with himself at times.

“Is this what people usually talk about on the first date?” His joke falls flat when Harry purses his lips. Some people just can’t appreciate good humor.

He needs to compromise, because that’s the thing about Harry Potter—he’s never doing to get everything he wants with him. He thinks he can compromise; he thinks. Give a little, get a little. A type of balance he never had with Astoria.

“It’ll involve talking about children.” Or a child, specifically.

“You just made me have an existential crisis Draco. I think I’ll live.”

“Right.” His fingers circle around the rim of his wine glass slowly, as he prepares to include Harry in the small list of people that know why he got divorced. “She never hurt him. Physically, I mean. I just think that should be made clear beforehand.”

Harry nods. “I have a feeling that anyone that hurts your son won’t live to see another day.”

Though he would never physically hurt Astoria either, he can’t help but agree with the sentiment.

“Right,” he repeats lamely. “And you have to understand, Pureblood culture… it's so _different_ from the norm. There’s all this pressure to produce an heir as soon as possible.” He laughs, “My father actually had made plans to arrange a marriage between Pansy and me when we were younger. I have a feeling you would hate being a Pureblood.” 

Harry raises a brow. “No offense, but he should have known that you didn’t like women. I mean… look at you.”

Draco’s mouth drops open and he narrows his eyes. Was it appropriate to strangle someone on the first date or was that something that should wait for the second?

“God, even _I_ knew you were a sodding ponce in school,” Harry reminisces matter-of-factly. “It’s not that hard to figure out.”

He’ll strangle him when he was least expecting it. 

“ _As I was saying_ ,” Draco says through clenched teeth, “It’s a bit hard to live out your gay fantasies when two thousand year old magical bloodlines comes down to a single heir.” He gulps down a large swing of the tart wine to calm down some of his bitterness. It’s not hard liquor, but it’ll do. “I was only doing what I was told. So was she.” He sighs. “I guess that was the problem. Fulfilling our obligation to our families rather than living for ourselves.”

Obligation. Such an ugly, manipulative word. Pureblood children know it by name like an old enemy. 

Harry’s voice is cautious, boarding on fearful as he asks, “Do you regret having—”

“No. Never.” Scorpius was an unexpected rose in such a god awful situation. He would do it all over again if he had to. “I just wish…I wish someone would have told me that she would. Regret it, I mean.” He sets the wine down, pinching his stinging nose as he remembers all that she didn’t do.

“The cheating wasn’t even the worst part,” he admits. Though it did sting like a bitch. And take a bit of his already stolen sanity too.

Harry chokes. “Cheating?”

“Cheating,” he echoes. “But it’s fine. I’m just…bitter is all.” 

And an idiot, though his pride wouldn’t allow him to admit it aloud. He, like to stupid sod he was, actually _tried_ to have a happy, nuclear family with her, not knowing that some lemons were too sour to make lemonade out of. 

“The worst part was how she treated him. Scorpius.” Wine, no, liquor was needed. He stretches out his tense back. Brown liquor, specifically. Harry wraps his finger around his pinky in a silent show of encouragement. “She never cared for him, ever. I thought, after he was born, that she just had trouble connecting to him. I thought maybe she was suffering from postpartum depression, but for ten years? I never tried to hold that against her, but there were only so many times she could forget to feed him or ignore him when he was talking to her before I had enough. She always acted as if he didn’t even exist.”

“I thought she was sick,” he admits. “Sometimes she wouldn’t get out of bed for days. It would have been cruel just to leave her by herself like that, right?”

Harry bites his lip. “I don’t know how to answer that.” 

He sighs. “Neither did I.”

It’s a bit wild to consider that he would be here with Harry Potter, not holding back as he divulges the day he decided to leave Paris and never return. 

Draco thinks that he should have known better, all those months ago when he was preparing to leave for a conference for Apparition safety and he was shaking with nerves for weeks about the thought of leaving Scorpius in Astoria’s care. He never worried when leaving Scorpius with his mother, or Pansy and Blaise, yet he couldn’t help but fear the worst when he was whisked away for a week-long conference.

His intuition rarely failed him, yet he always doubts it when Astoria is involved. 

“What happened?” Something closely resembling anger flashes in Harry’s eyes. 

Draco laughs dryly. “Besides, Scorpius not being properly fed, or looked after, or sent to school for a week? I guess you could say nothing happened. But that isn’t much of the problem, is it? The problem is that anything _could have_ happened. And who would have been there to stop or tell me that something went wrong, that he needed me? No one.” He tugs anxiously at his braid. “After that, I just can’t seem to relax when he’s not near me. I don’t know how I’m going to cope when he goes to Hogwarts next year.”

It was embarrassing. He had separation anxiety worse than a young crup, all because of Astoria’s carelessness. But no matter how much he tries to trick his mind into thinking that it would never happen again, that Scorpius is safe, that moment never seems to quite leave his memories.

His hands are starting to tremble in anger around his wine glass when he remembers Scorpius’ unwillingness to admit that his mother neglected him for an entire week. After that, he had been so convinced that their divorce was his fault and not Astoria’s for being a neglectful parent. They shake harder and he doesn’t know what to do with the excess emotions. He doesn’t think Harry would appreciate it much if he snapped and starts burning random office items. 

Of all things, he can still remember the wilted plant in their bathroom that Draco had asked her to water while he was away for that week. Such a simple, mundane task. Yet when he came back, Scorpius hadn’t been to school for days and the plant was brittle with neglect and sitting in a pile of its own dead leaves. 

He couldn’t trust her with one damn plant. How can he manage to trust her with their son?

Draco scrubs his cold face with his hands. “So, now you know why I am divorced. Can we please stop talking about this? Usually my first dates aren’t this intense.” If he even gets a first date that is.

Harry loops him back into his arms, this time forgoing his shyness and burying his hand in Draco’s hair. “Alright, let's start with something simpler. Tell me, Draco Malfoy, what is your favorite color?”

He laughs, the sound shaky and nearly forced, but real. Fucking Gryffindors. “Green. And yours?”

His dimples somehow appear deeper under the moonlight when he answers, “Red.”

* * *

Blonde hair is flipped over her shoulder and she turns to glance at Harry speaking with Boot. “Harry always looks so happy,” Kacia sighs, “I wonder what it would take to make a man like that upset.”

Watching his best friends’ brother die would be one way, Draco thinks. And Aurors. He knows that now, so he’ll be increasingly cautious not to abuse that knowledge.

“Though I heard,” she purrs, “That Mr. Potter is out on the market again.” She crosses her smooth bare legs, biting her lip in a way that he assumes is supposed to be seductive. She has a glob of hot pink lipstick smeared across her teeth and Draco wonders if he should be a good samaritan and tell her so. 

She winks in Harry’s direction. 

Nah, she’s good.

He looks at Areum nervously, grateful more than ever for her friendship. She had accidentally seen Draco plant a parting kiss on Harry’s cheek last Friday, and he’s been worrying himself into knots over whether their budding relationship will be out before it barely begins.

Yet, deep down he knows she wouldn’t say anything. Now if it had been Kacia… Draco may have had to try his hand at Obliviating a Muggle.

“Who in their right minds would let _that_ go?”

Areum has never looked so close to wringing someone’s neck before. Honestly, Draco wouldn’t stop her. These past few weeks she’s been chattering nonstop about Harry’s eyes, Harry’s muscles, Harry’s sunny personality ever since Ginny and Luna came to pick Albus and Lily up from school. The minute she saw the two women’s connected hands must have been the single greatest moment in her life because suddenly her entire life revolved around Harry Potter.

In some ways, Draco almost feels bad for her. He knew what it was like to fall for Harry’s charms and for your secret affections to be unreciprocated. Pansy and Blaise have heard hundreds of soliloquies about him throughout the years, and his were far worse than Kacia’s sly commentary. To this day he still doesn’t know how they managed to stay friends with him.

“Oh, and Harry’s quite fit isn’t he?” Her eyes twinkle like a little girl dreaming of her prince. “Don’t you two agree?”

Draco nods because hell bloody yes he agreed. Areum says nothing, her eyes fixated on the chalkboard ahead and her fingers drumming rapidly against her wheelchair arm. 

Tapping her thin pink lips, she muses, “There has to be _some_ reason—” Then she gasps, her blue eyes widening. Kacia leans forward to them and whispers harshly, “Oh my, you don’t think he’s one of those…” she looks around, “ _shift-lifters_ , do you?”

Draco stiffens in his seat, praying his cheeks don’t betray him. The term doesn’t upset him, he’s grown thickened skin after hearing far worse from his father and Finley, but bloody fuck if the idea of her finding out that everyone’s favorite English teacher and PTA President is absolutely a sodding shift-lifter doesn’t petrify him. He thinks he’ll rather have her find that he’s a wizard before that.

Beside him, Areum growls and glares at the blonde woman. She leans over Draco’s lap, her eyes darkening. “Why don’t you try thinking before you speak Kacia? I know it’s a hard skill for you, but I think you’ll find that you’ll have a lot less bullshite to chat about.”

Draco turns his head and coughs into his elbow to avoid bursting out into laughter. Say what you want about Areum, but she is without a doubt the funniest person in the room. She’s like Pansy if Pansy had more self-control. Kacia’s pale face has gone paler as she tries to backtrack on her ‘very not homophobic’ statements, but she’s cut off by Harry’s booming voice starting the meeting.

Draco mouths a silent ‘thank you’ to Areum as Harry begins to speak. She winks at him from the corner of her eye.

“Good afternoon everyone,” Harry says with that same disarmingly charming smile of his. Draco forces down a grin. Very fit indeed. “As you all know, the school will be holding its annual anti-bullying campaign next week. Areum, why don’t you share the ideas you sent me for the event?”

Kacia melts into her seat as Areum proudly wheels up to the front of the room. Oh how sweet karma could be sometimes.

* * *

Another week and another gift basket is sent to his home. He’s considering whether it would be worth it telling Finley to go fuck himself through a Howler, but Draco reasons that that would only incite more baskets. Still, he’s getting very tired of _Incendio_ -ing every basket he gets. 

He’s 31, and Draco never thought his life by now would consist of dodging gift baskets from Finley Greengrass, detesting spaghetti, and wanting to shag Harry Potter. While the fantasy of shagging him may not be new, the idea that he actually _could_ shag him was very new and very titillating.

Unfortunately, Harry has dodged every single one of Draco’s advances, and he's now wondering if his fantasy is nothing more than that. A fantasy.

Even last week, when Draco had purposefully Floo-called him to inform him that Scorpius would be at the Manor for the rest of the day, Harry had only smiled and nodded, changing the subject back whether or not Princess had impregnated Optimus Prime during their last playdate. Draco had scowled into the fire, only half-listening and fuming that he owed Ginny a favor for nothing. She had taken Albus and Lily out for the entire day, in hopes that he may get lucky. 

But no, Harry wanted to talk about Pygmy Puff uteruses. 

The Floo roars to life and Blaise’s face appears in the flames. “What?” The question comes out far harsher than he intended.

Blaise holds up his hands, “Merlin, easy. I was just wondering if you wanted to come over for drinks. My current drinking partner is indisposed at the moment.” He looks Draco up and down. If he makes another Dad joke Draco might strangle him. “What’s wrong Draco?”

Draco feels his back tense uncomfortably at the question. How could he eloquently tell him that he was starved for sex with a man that would rather discuss Pygmy Puff sperm than bend him over a desk? He groans. 

He loves Blaise like a brother, but there was a very distinct difference between talking to him about sex and talking to Pansy about sex. Draco doesn’t think he could mutter the words ‘Harry’s cock’ to him without one of them running in the other direction. He loves Blaise, but Merlin, Draco doesn’t think he’s met anyone who embodies the essence of a heterosexual man more than him. At least Harry has Ginny to talk to, regardless of their previous engagement. 

Quidditch, money, work, politics— that’s what he and Blaise discuss. They discuss sex too, but not _sex._ Not the kind of sex Draco was craving with Harry. 

“Draco,” Blaise says above his groaning. “Talk to me.”

That was the problem, Draco doesn’t know if he can.

If he’s being honest, Draco’s never quite been comfortable discussing his sexuality with anyone other than Pansy. He’s not ashamed of course, just not comfortable. His mother and him have never discussed it head on, but he’s seen some of her unfinished letters to his father detailing how disgusted she was by his fervent disapproval of Draco’s sexual orientation. 

Unfortunately, his usual sex expert of a gossiping partner and Blaise’s drinking partner is so tired from the baby that she has locked herself in one of the guest rooms for the week, claiming that sleep is the only remedy for her sore nipples and body aches. Unless Voldemort has risen from the dead, she was not to be disturbed.

He sighs. Blaise was his best friend, far before he had even met Pansy. He wouldn’t judge him, right? They weren’t in Hogwarts anymore for Merlin’s sake. “I’m coming through.”

The moment he steps into the silver-grey drawing room, his eyes immediately focus on the array of liquors on the antique Singaporean table. “Planning a party?” This was more liquor than two people could drink in a week. 

“With this stuff?” Blaise points to the stack of bottles. “It’s always a party.”

* * *

They’re only two bottles in, yet Draco doesn’t think he could manage to tell left from right at this point. Pansy can drink them both under a roof, but Draco’s sure that even she would have aired on the side of caution with this liquor. It was straight from a Muggle brewery, leaving Draco to conclude that most Muggles must be secret alcoholics. 

“Blaise, I have to ask you something,” he takes two more gulps, because why the hell not? He has to take a breath when the burn in his throat becomes unbearable. 

“You’re foxed mate,” Blaise slurs, reaching with stiff fingers for another bottle. Muggle liquor was arguably the best liquor. 

“Liquid courage,” he mutters into his glass. He sets it down, the brown liquid sloshing in the crystal cup. Draco buries his face in his hands. “Look, I know this is going to be weird because of your,” he waves a clumsy hand around, “ _straightness_ , but I don’t have anyone else to talk to about this so can you please put your heterosexuality aside for just ten minutes?”

Blaise takes a deep breath, setting his own glass down and sitting straighter in his seat. “First off: rude. Second, if it’s about Pansy and I’s side pieces, just know we have both agreed—”

The liquor sloshes uncomfortably in his stomach at the mention of his best friends’ sex life. “It’s not about that. In fact… I don’t think I would ever want to know anything about that.”

Satisfied that Draco wasn’t about to pry into the gritty details of his and Pansy’s polygamous sexual endeavors, Blaise sits back in his seat, taking a sip of his glass. “Shoot.”

Draco digs his thumb nail into the soft flesh of his forefinger. He was overreacting. This was Blaise, his best friend. The same Blaise that he could tell everything to before they even went to Hogwarts. Straight or not, he wouldn’t think any less of him. 

“It’s about Ha—Potter,” he coughs and dives headfirst into the jugular of the problem. “Okay listen, I’ve been trying so hard, but fuck, Blaise, what is he not understanding? Do you think he’s stupid? Am I dating a stupid man? I mean how hard is it to pick up my bloody hints? It’s like he doesn’t even want to and I don’t think I can handle any more of his—”

“Draco… Draco,” Blaise says calmly, breathing in and out demonstratively to soothe Draco’s nerves. “Take a breath.” He does, feeling no better than he did before. Why does his heart pound and his hands shake over even the simplest of things? Must be the liquor. “Now tell me in plain words what the issue is. Keyword: _plain._ ”

“Harry won’t have sex with me!”

There’s a pause, the liquor in Blaise’s drink stilling. Then he’s laughing so loudly that he risks waking Pansy up with his cackling. “ _That’s_ your problem? Potter not having sex with you has turned you into this big of an anxious mess?” 

Draco’s face burns. He hates being laughed at for his irrationalities. In his head, his worries were completely justified. 

Wiping a tear from his eyes, Blaise says, “If you want to have sex with Potter, have sex with Potter. It’s literally just that simple.”

Draco glares at the reflection of his glass in the sunlight. “This is why I asked you to put your heterosexuality aside,” he mutters. “I can’t just ask Potter to shag me, Blaise. It doesn’t work like that.”

It can, but Draco can recite a list of about a dozen ways that could go terribly, terribly wrong. Especially since he was starting to worry whether Harry’s cock was broken and he was just unlucky enough to be afflicted by erectile dysfunction at such a youthful age. Or if he was, quite frankly, not that bright.

“Why not? It worked for Pansy.”

Pansy Parkinson could tell a cat to bark and it would do it. Draco theorized a long time ago that her power didn’t lie in magic, no, it was in persuasion.

“What I’m saying is, you’ve done whatever you’ve wanted to Potter for years; I don’t know why you’re acting so shy now?”

Draco gives him a flat look. “I haven’t had sex in ten years, Blaise.”

Scandalized, Blaise’s face crumples in remorse for his friend and he hastily _Accio’s_ the liquor bottle, pouring Draco a healthy shot for his sorrows. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Fuck, I am just… _so_ _sorry_ Draco.”

“Cheers,” he throws the shot back, the burn searing as it travels down his throat and stomach. He tips the cup back for Blaise to pour him another one, needing more spirits to ease his ten year virginal pain. Brown liquor will always have a place in his heart and Blaise knows exactly what he likes.

Blaise rubs his chin, his certified thinking face on full display. “Okay, well let’s look at it from Potter’s point of view. What he sees is an anxiety-ridden single father and a gay disaster of man still adjusting to being divorced.”

Draco would despise him for that description if it weren’t so bloody accurate.

“Obviously,” Blaise continues, “He’s either not as confident as you make him out to be or he’s waiting for you to make the first move so that he doesn’t scare you away. Either way, that means you have to man up or suffer through another ten years of celibacy.”

Draco nods, taking it in. When he put his heterosexuality aside, Blaise did make an excellent point. Harry, for as fit as he was, could also be the most oblivious person Draco knew. Clearly, subtle hints weren’t doing him any favors. So far it has been Draco who’s initiated everything. Maybe he really was just waiting for Draco’s cue. His very _explicit_ cue.

“Goddamnit, you’re right!” He pounds his fist on the table with reignited resolve. He was going to do this. Sex was important in many relationships and there was no reason for them not to be having it. “We are going to have sex!”

Blaise raises his glass in the air. “Go fuck him hard mate!”

“No,” Draco shakes his head, his body swaying in his seat. “He’s going to fuck _me_ hard!”

“Er, well that’s good too!” Blaise says, recovering enough to clap him on the back encouragingly, “That’s the spirit.”

“I’m gonna tell him.” Intent on finding Harry at this very moment to shag him silly, Draco pushes his seat back, his arms wobbling as he does, “I’m gonna— _fuck!_ ”

The tip of his shoe catches on the bottom rung of the chair and he’s never been more grateful for Blaise in his life when he catches him by the arms right before he falls flat on his face. 

“Let’s maybe try storming away to get shagged when you’re sober, yeah?” Blaise grunts out as he places Draco’s limp body back into his seat.

“Yeah,” Draco agrees, his eyelids suddenly feeling too heavy to keep open. Blinking rapidly, his blurred vision focuses on the half empty glass of brandy Blaise supplied for him. “I need to stop drinking.”

He really wants to stop seeing his insecurities at the mouth of a bottle. Problem is, he doesn’t know how to quit doing so.

“Agreed.” Like any good best friend, Blaise Vanishes the liquor in Draco’s drink and casts several unfortunate jinxes on the bottle of liquor so that Draco won’t be tempted to touch the bottle again. Draco slumps down into his seat, hiccuping as he watches Blaise return the bottles onto a very high shelf that neither a drunk man nor a pregnant woman could reach. 

“Can I take a quick kip here?” He asks this as he melts further and further down into his seat. Alcohol and him were not friends and there had to come a day where Draco accepted that. “My home’s too empty…”

With a sigh, Blaise _Accio's_ something out of the living room. “Hey arsehole,” Blaise murmurs, shoving a soft, Slytherin green blanket in Draco’s face, “You know you can talk to me right? I won’t judge you Draco.”

“I love you Blaise. You’re a good straight friend.”

Draping the blanket over his shoulders, Blaise says, “Do you love me enough to listen to me when I say that you need to go back to a Mind Healer and finally take those potions? I mean think of how much better you’ll feel if…”

While he’s talking, Draco inconspicuously casts a wandless noise deflector charm around him. He may be drunk, but he wasn’t that drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated and loved!


	6. Full Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all for all of the kind words! Y'all really don't know how much I appreciate them.  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> Sooo… this story was given the rating it has for a reason. I'll just leave that tidbit here.

Draco watches with narrowed, determined eyes as Harry finishes up the PTA meeting for today. Kacia is suspiciously quiet, but from the way Areum had been glaring daggers at her all afternoon, Draco would be too. 

He’s not much interested in them as he is in Harry. Harry, with his simple white cotton t-shirt that looked sinfully delicious against his brown skin and defined biceps. He was talking with his arms again, and it was all Draco could do not to pounce on him from the back of the room. Stupid Potter was doing this on purpose, even winking at him on occasion when he thinks he can get away with it. Kacia sighs a little next to him, but she’s learned her lesson, keeping her thin mouth shut each time it happens.

It’s when Harry bids them a good day and the parents leave the room one by one does Draco make his move.

“Mr. Potter,” Draco purrs when the last person leaves. “There’s something very urgent I need to discuss with you.” 

He won’t bat his lashes and bite his lip because he still had _some_ pride, but Draco will admit that he may have toyed with the end of his braid a bit. According to Scorpius' teachings about Muggle superheroes, his hair would be referred to as Harry’s Krypto… something. 

With a raised brow, Harry leans against his large wooden desk, that fucking shirt working its magic on his body. “Why don’t you come to my desk Malfoy. I’m sure we could come to a conclusion.”

Oh, he knows. If he didn’t know before he knew now.

“Harry…” Draco moves closer, the heat of Harry’s body pulling him in. He’s just close enough to reach his hand out and graze his lapel with his fingertips when the door slams open. They both jump as Terry Boot enters the room, smelling like cigarette smoke; his booming voice and joyful aura diminishing the heavy air that previously surrounded them. 

Unamused by the most unsexy thing walking into the room, Draco silently snarls at the back of Boot’s head when he turns his back to him. He butts Draco out of the way in his quest to get to Harry fucking Potter.

“Harry!” He grabs Harry’s hand, giving it a hardy shake. Harry looks a bit rattled by the action. “How are ya mate? How’s the wife?”

This time, Draco really does snarl, quite loudly in fact. Boot turns to him as if suddenly noticing his cold presence, a warm smile plastered on his face despite Draco’s persistent scowl. Harry cringes and shakes his head, mouthing for him not to say anything about Ginny. 

Draco internally rolls his eyes. As if he’ll risk outing himself to the Daily Prophet about his not so salacious affair with Harry Potter, his son’s presumed straight teacher, and his former arch-nemesis. 

“Malfoy, it’s been so long, how’ve you been?”

He grits his teeth. “You see me at PTA meetings every week, Boot.” His fists clenched involuntarily and he feels himself grow hot. He wasn’t at the meeting today and Draco had only taken it as a sign that he would finally get lucky. Clearly, he was wrong.

Terry Boot, the thick-headed bastard that somehow managed to be sorted into Ravenclaw, gives him a loopy sort of smile. Draco never cared for him; he was a walking oxymoron. “Ah, right. Say, doesn’t your kid go here? Scorpio or Scorpion or something like that?”

His nose twitches. Once, twice, three times does he remind himself why it would be a bad idea to strangle Boot. It was unimaginably difficult, seeing that Draco did not take kindly to people, especially shallow-minded Ravenclaws, who did not properly pronounce his son’s name. It was one thing for it to be an honest mistake, it was another thing for it to be a result of simply not caring. Names are not something to be careless of.

Harry tenses, knowing that he may have a murder on his hands if Boot doesn’t watch it.

“His name is Scorpius. Not Scorpion.” He ought to feel guilty for returning to his schoolboy ways, yet Draco can’t help but to lift his nose in the air and snobbishly announce in his poshest voice, “He is named after a constellation, much like I am.”

If nothing else, a Malfoy man should be proud of his name.

Boot nods, disinterest translucent in his flat gaze. “Cool.” He turns back to Harry. “So Harry, I’m sorry I missed today.” He ribs him playfully. “You know, wives and all.” There’s a special place in Hell for cock-blocking heterosexuals. “So, would you mind filling me in?”

Draco wants to stomp his foot in protest like Scorpius does. This wasn’t fair. He was here first, and if he’s being honest, far more important than Terry Boot. He had _actual_ needs that had to be addressed. Needs that were currently straining against the leg of his trouser pants.

In another universe, maybe where Draco has the disgusting misfortune of being a Gryffindor, he can see himself boldly telling Boot to shut the fuck up and step away from the man he was trying to bugger.

In this universe, Draco watches helplessly, counting down each second he makes it not exploding into tiny, celibate pieces.

He waves his hands behind Boot’s thick head, attempting to get the resident Gryffindor here to tell this idiot to leave them the hell alone. 

Yet Harry entertains him, nodding and answering all of Boot’s inquiries about a meeting that in Draco’s humble opinion, could have been sent in an email. Or in his case, an owl. Yet Harry’s doing much better with this than Draco was. Perhaps it was all that spoiling from Draco’s youth that was getting to him. When he really wants something, he wants it _now._

Draco fidgets in place, ravenous for something that Boot and his insidious cock-blocking jabbering couldn't provide. His eyes ever so often drift towards Harry’s muscled torso, the outlines of his shoulder blades and spine flexing as he turns talks to Boot with animated hand gestures. 

He was usually excellent at concealing his emotions through a cool mask of indifference, but Draco doesn’t think he could take another second of this torture. Not-An-Auror Potter was bloody fit, and it was impossible not to notice. His growing desperation was slow and painful; how Harry managed to maintain a composed demeanor baffled him. When it came to Harry, Draco tended to lose all of his steely composure.

It’s frightening the way he wants him— unashamed and sacrificial— his tongue ready to mark his throat at the flick of a wand.

“Ah well,” Harry says at last, yawning and stretching into the air. Draco salivates. “It’s been real nice talking to you Terry but I have to finish marking these papers. Malfoy here has been itching to know Scorpius’ marks, so I best get to it. I’ll see you at the next PTA meeting, yeah?”

A barmy smirk rises on his face when Draco opens the door for Boot and practically shoves him out of the room without letting him get out another word.

The door shuts close with a soft click, the sound reverberating in the empty, crayon-scented air as Draco leans back against the pale wood, uncaring about ruffling his carefully done braid as he pressed his head against the frame. He wandlessly casts several additional locking spells, the sound of the door locking tight behind the small of his back music to his ears.

Finally. Patience was never his strongest asset, and he believes that he was in for some serious compensation for his troubles. 

Harry raises his brows, a disastrously cheeky smile on his lips. “Is this your grand plan? Locking us in my room so you can finally have your way with me? Terry’s probably thinking I have it out for him.”

Draco’s figured Harry out. He’s not stupid and he bets his cock wasn’t broken from the way he was smirking. He’s just a terribly massive flirt. 

“Shut up about Boot,” he growls. Draco yanks at his tie, loosening the damned knot before he chokes on lust. “Come here.” 

With a curled finger he summons Harry to him, tilting his neck to show off all of the unmarked pale skin Harry was free to abuse at his will. Harry cups his cheek in his palm and Draco melts into the warmth. “Never make me wait that long again,” he sighs just as Harry’s lips suck on the bone of his collar, creating a path up his neck and along his jaw. “Never.”

“You really expect me to fuck you in my classroom?” Harry asks against his lips, apple-scented breath heating his own panting mouth. 

Draco’s dulling senses seem to sharpen at the word ‘classroom’. Fuck, he should have Disapparated them the moment they got away from that infernal Boot. But now he was pinned against a wall, with his legs beginning to wrap around Harry’s waist and his near painfully hard cock straining against Harry’s abdomen. 

Classroom or not, he needed Harry. Classroom or not, he was going to indulge in the gorgeous man in front of him like it was his magic-given right.

“Yes,” he says with the utmost conviction. No more distractions; this was happening. He rears his head back, looking at Harry through the ruffled strands of blonde hair that have come undone out of his braid. “Intimidated Potter?”

It was as if he spoke the magic words, because the next thing he knew Harry’s mouth was on his; tongue and teeth pushing their way onto Draco’s lips and demanding for him to relinquish control like a challenge. His body is alive and hot under his fingers, the skin rising from a simple brush of his forefinger.

He doesn’t know when this happened. Heaven and Hell must have merged into one that rainy morning that they first kissed, because Draco finds that it is so easy to submit to Harry Potter. 

Harry pulls him from the door, his mouth still on his. Several child-drawn pictures of a black haired figure with green eyes and brown skin are knocked onto the floor when Harry deposits him on the desk, along with a note that reads ‘I Love You Mr. Porter!’ enclosed in pink hearts. Draco’s hands trace over the fine grain wood, the tiny grooves of the desk digging into his fingertips. Harry’s mouth sucks at the base of his neck, down his collarbone and right along the top of his jugular.

“This is disgusting,” Draco chides breathily in his ear, “Shagging on your desk.”

“Filthy,” Harry agrees, his wet tongue swiveling languidly in the hollow of Draco’s throat, sucking and licking at the skin in a way that will surely show the next day. He moans into the air. “Absolutely filthy.”

Harry begins to wave his fingers around and thankfully, Draco stops him just in time before the spell is casted.

“I swear to Circe—Harry Potter if you Vanish my clothing or rip them because you're too bloody randy to take them off like a normal person, I will _Incendio_ your cock off.”

Harry snorts, beginning instead to paw at Draco’s trousers. “Right. You’ll miss it after this.”

Cocky, ironically enough. Draco bites his lip despite his annoyance. He’s always liked a bit of cockiness and it looks particularly good on Harry. Still, at his demand, Harry does things the proper way, taking his time to carefully peel off his fifty galleon trousers and pants instead of Vanishing or ripping them like an uncivilized brute.

“ _Oh_ ,” Harry breathes. 

His heart spikes in his chest, the feeling actually painful. Rubbing the spot over his heart, Draco hisses, “What? Never seen a cock before?”

“Sod off,” Harry retorts, his eyes still glued to Draco’s hard cock. “It’s just… Ron and I used to joke back in school that you were a dick because you were trying to… well, make up for your dick. Clearly we were wrong.” He licks his lips. “Very wrong.”

Had he not wanted this so badly, Draco would have hexed Harry for mentioning the Weasel when he’s preparing to get fucked on his desk. He’ll put it on his to-do list.

Draco casts the proper cleaning and protective charms, hissing at the cooling sting. It’s been years since he’s had to do either of those charms and it seems as though the discomfort never ceases to go away.

Harry is far too overdressed. Internally he’s wondering how best to ask a man to take off his trousers and pants when Harry hastily discards his lower clothing with two quick tugs, his cock jutting out when he yanks his pants down. 

He immediately reaches out to touch him, coming up short when he remembers his manners. Narcissa Malfoy taught him better than that. “Can I?” 

“It’s yours for the taking.”

Harry’s cock was wonderfully thick and heavy in his hands and he moaned appreciatively at the thought of it inside him. Or Draco inside of him. He doesn’t think he cared either way as long as _something_ happened in this brightly colored room. 

An animalistic urge seized him to lean over and trace the vein that traveled down his shaft with his tongue, swirl the rough pad of his thumb over the tip of the sensitive, seeping flesh, swallow him whole until the only word Harry could gasp out was his name. 

Green eyes stare down at him, dancing with mirth as Draco’s hungry gaze devours him. He’s nearly about to bend his head down, or maybe just give in to his insatiable desire to taste him and drop to his knees, but Harry clearly has other ideas. He holds Draco’s head back by the base of his braid, keeping him away from what he wanted most. 

“I know what you’re thinking.” Draco blinks in surprise. Had he been that obvious? “You first.”

Harry pushes him onto his back on the table, the forceful action causing a dull ache in his head when it hits the wooden desk unexpectedly. He’s about to curse him for being such a buggering brute when Harry’s warm mouth engulfs him inch by inch and immediately all is forgiven. 

“Fuck!” He writhes under Harry’s touch, arching his back so that Harry could take more of him. He can’t quite take him all the way but Merin it was more than enough to satisfy him. _“Please…"_

Harry, for all intents and purposes, seems to not only be the Vanquisher of the Dark Lord, an amazing cook, and the most stubbornly annoying prat Draco had ever met, but he also happened to be a bloody fantastic cocksucker as well. Draco loves a man of many talents.

Relaxing on the hard desk, Draco’s body feels like liquid as Harry sucks him off. He can see outside the window from this angle. Though upside down, the warm, cheery sunshine that was a rarity in dreary England shined down on him, pleasantly warming his face and torso as the tendrils of an orgasm pulled at him. Even Mother Nature was rewarding him for finally getting laid. He thinks he might cry a little.

A strangled sound tears through his throat and he has to physically push Harry away with his legs to keep from coming in his mouth. “Too much. Gonna come if you keep doing that.”

“Already?” Harry asks incredulously as he wipes the saliva from his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he snips, “it’s…it's been a while.” Heat rushes to his already pink face and he turns his lips up in contempt. He hasn’t had a blowjob since school, but he’s not going to ruin the moment by telling Harry that. “Besides, I just want you to fuck me Potter, unless cocksucking is the only thing you’re good at.”

“You’re a bigger prat during sex you know that?” 

Draco smirks up at the tiled ceiling. “I find that it can help motivate some people.” By some people, he most definitely only means Harry Potter. 

The sunlight in his eyes obscures most of his vision but he can feel Harry smiling down at him. 

“You look good like this.”

“As I’m being defiled on your work desk?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of happy, but that works too.” He presses a gentle kiss on his shoulder, distracting him as he _Accio’s_ something from his coat pocket and presses a cold, wet finger against his tight hole.

Draco is reduced to a muttering mess as Harry slowly works him open. It’s been so long since anyone has touched him this way that he nearly forgot just how good it was. 

“Y-you keep— lube in your coat?” He grunts out, bucking harshly in the air when Harry’s finger brushes up against the sensitive prostate that he just knew would undo him very soon. Fuck, he probably should have warned Harry that he really hasn’t had sex in ten years. “Felt lucky today Potter?”

Harry licks a path from his shaft to his navel, looking up at him the entire time with dark, hooded eyes. “You could say that. But sometimes a bit of foresight isn’t a bad thing. Don’t you think?” He punctuates this by adding a second finger. 

Draco bites his lip, willing himself not to make a fool out of himself and come from fingers alone. He won’t be able to look him in the eyes after that. 

He brushes against his prostate again and Draco stifles a cry. Adding just the right amount of pressure to send jolts of pleasure up his spine but still not enough to unravel him completely. He does it again, only this time he rubs it for less than a second before retracting his fingers. “You bloody tease, just get on with it!”

“It’ll hurt if I don’t—”

“Don’t care. Let it hurt.” He bites his lip to keep from pleading. 

He reasoned that he didn’t care if it hurt, but there was no way he was going to showcase how inexperienced he really was right now when everything was perfect and Harry had hardly been touched at all.

He removes his fingers, and Draco tries his best not to seem too disgruntled over their loss, reminding his needy libido that it would soon be filled with something much more satisfying.

That is, if Harry ever hurries the hell up and fucks him already.

“ _Potter_ ,” Draco groans after a minute. What the hell was taking him so long?

He hears a clang of metal on the ground followed by several muttered curses. Rising up on his elbows, he sees Harry, cursing darkly under his breath. His hands are messy from a thick substance and dark patches of what Draco assumes must be the lube on the front of his undone trousers.

Harry gives him a sheepish smile. “Sorry, kinda dropped the uh… yeah.” He moves to run his hands through his hair but wisely stops right when he remembers the slick liquid covering his palms. Draco raises a brow before his eyes locate some of the stuff smeared on the classroom floor, a slippery mess of it lying not too far from where the black bottle was.

His body deflates as Draco assesses the situation. “I… haven’t done this in a while,” Harry admits shyly, his face tinted red with embarrassment. The slight tremble in his hands placed everything into context. 

Draco hadn’t realized how hard he was laughing until the sides of his stomach stiffened into a dull ache and Harry’s face and neck was an adorable shade of red. It keeps coming, bubbling up under his chest and reducing him into a puddle of fondness for Harry.

He wipes several tears from his eyes and reaches a hand out for Harry. “Come here,” his voice is still gravely from laughing and his face tear soaked. It’s been a long time since he’s laughed that hard. Almost as long as since he last had sex.

Harry groans, a small, painfully endearing frown on his face. He obliges anyway, coming close enough to Draco so that they were chest to chest. Taking Harry’s hands in his, he wandlessly _Scourgifies_ each lube covered palm, his trousers, and the floor. 

“Thanks,” Harry mumbles.

Draco takes Harry’s tie in his fist, using it to lower his lips downward. “I wasn’t laughing at you,” he bites his lip and sniggers softly into Harry's shirt collar. “Okay I was, but it’s not just you, you know.”

“You’re not the one who spilled lube everywhere,” he grumbled.

Draco laughs in a light, cheery sound that he hasn’t heard come out of his mouth in years. Almost like a giggle. Almost. He straightens Harry’s glasses because he hates when they were crooked slightly to the left. “No, I’m not. I’m just the one who hasn’t had a blowjob since fifth year.”

Harry gasps in indignation. “What?! Are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

He sputters, trying to comprehend how that was even possible. Knowing Harry, he probably saw it as a moral injustice that needed to immediately be rectified. 

“I’ll give you all the blowjobs you want, I swear it.” Draco smiles. A true Gryffindor at heart. 

“My hero—I’ll be sure to hold you to it. In the meantime, don’t feel bad about being out of practice. I'll make sure you get up to speed.”

Harry presses his forehead against Draco’s, the warm heat of his skin reminding him that he was not alone; that they were in this together. “I’ll hold you to it,” he echoes. 

“Allow me.” Draco _Accio’s_ the bottle off the floor, depositing a generous amount of lube onto his palm and covering every inch of Harry’s cock with it. 

When he’s done, he sniffs the droplet of lube on his finger carefully. “Mint?” He loved mint flavored things and it truly was Harry’s lucky day to bring him the right flavor of lube. Supposing that it couldn't be that harmful to ingest, Draco places his forefinger on the tip of his tongue, licking it clean and nodding in approval. “Not bad,” he concedes.

He’s lying. It’s absolutely abhorrent and definitely _not_ meant to be ingested by any sane human. But Harry looks so entranced by him suggestively sucking his finger that he finds himself disregarding the taste just to see him look so wonderfully flustered. 

He can hear Harry swallow above him. “Fuck Draco, don’t do that. Stop.” His cock was telling him otherwise as it pressed into his abdomen.

“Make me.”

Draco sucked the rest of it off of his finger slowly, releasing the digit with a satisfying pop as Harry watched with hooded eyes. 

Growling, Harry pins him down on the desk, all traces of his previous nerves gone as Draco further tempts him, sucking each finger free of the disgusting mint substance and laughing at Harry’s frustration.

“You’ve always loved getting under my skin.” A quip about Harry getting inside his skin is on his lips when strong hands straddle his waist and finally gives him what he’s been aching for ever since Boot interrupted them. “I’ve always hated that about you.” 

“Shhh, less talking. More of this—” he guides Harry’s cock towards his hole, a moan settling into his throat as Harry pushes further into him. Harry was right, it hurt and God he loves it. 

Then he pushes past the first ring of muscle and he realizes that oh shite Harry was _right._

“Oh bloody fuck!” Tears spring into his eyes and Draco wraps his thick braid around his mouth to avoid shouting more expletives. He hadn’t cast the strongest silencing charms beforehand, his eagerness affecting his spellwork. It didn’t help he did it wandless either.

Harry stills inside of him, his hands flying to cradle his face. “Draco, fuck, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he pants, “I just remembered that I haven’t done this in ten years and there’s a reason why you warned me.” He hisses in pain. “It’s okay though, really.”

“Are you sure, because I can—”

He waves him off. “Yes Potter, I can handle it.” Harry pushes in a bit further, stopping only once Draco clamps down on his braid. “I’m sorry, I was wrong, shite I was so wrong, I’m not as ready for this as I thought. Fuck, can you give me a minute?” Draco's face felt on fire, his stinging eyes blurring his vision until he finally swallows his pride and blinks out the tears collecting in the corners of his eyes.

“Sorry,” Harry winces.

“Don’t apologize for something that isn’t your fault.”

Harry snorts childishly. “Well then in that case I guess I shouldn’t apologize for having a huge cock either.”

“Shut up. You’re fucking average Potter.”

Truthfully he’s a bit above average, but Draco isn’t much interested arguing about cock sizes when one was impaling him.

Harry obediently stills, looming over Draco with his pulsing, above average cock balls-deep in his arse and staring him as they wait for Draco to adjust. Even now, he is a bloody fidgeter, biting the inside of his cheek, playing with the tail end of his braid, drumming his fingers on his desk.

“Er… hi.”

He laughs at Harry’s lopsided smile before hissing in pain. “Hello Harry.”

Harry clears his throat. “So… how was your day?”

 _This man…_ “Pretty good,” he answers, deciding to play along with Harry’s little game while his arse was currently burning in pain. “Cleaned Princess’ cage, calculated some orbital patterns, finally got the average man who I’ve been pining after for sixteen years’ average cock up my arse. Couldn’t have been better.” He runs his hands up Harry’s straining biceps. “And yours?”

Harry shakes his head in a so-so kind of way. “Pretty good so far. There weren't many disruptions in class, my lesson plans have been approved by my blonde, bratty boss, and I finally fulfilled an old fantasy of mine.”

“Which is?”

Harry strokes his cock slowly, pumping him with long, rhythmic motions. “Fucking you on my desk.” 

“Oh,” Draco breathes, some the pain starting to disperse and beginning to morph into sparks of pleasure. His calloused fingers are godsent, truly.

“Though of course, in my fantasy, I was a lot smoother than dropping a bottle of lube everywhere,” he admits, groaning as he says it. “And I think I had much better pick up lines. My cock was the same though—it’s big enough as is.”

Draco laughs. “Whatever. But I have to disagree. I think I like the reality more than the fantasy.” He wiggles his hips, relieved to find that the pain has settled into nothing more than a dull pinch. “I think I’m okay now.”

He wiggles again and Harry sucks in a sharp breath. “God I wanted this for so long, Draco. You feel so much better than I imagined.” His fingers dig painfully into Draco’s hips. “Actually everything about you is better than I imagined.”

They both hiss when Draco pushes back against Harry’s body. “So good…”

So it seems that The Savior is a talker during sex. He never thought he’d be so thankfully for his incoherent babbling before. It’s so much better than the awkward silence he and Astoria shared.

“We should have done this sooner.” It’s been ten years and Draco finally remembers how right it felt to feel another body pinning him down, dominating him. He can’t help but imagine all of the trouble they would have been spared had they just admitted this— _thing_ —between them years ago. This sexual tension didn’t just appear out of nowhere. All of that energy put into fighting would have been much better used had Harry bent him over a desk years ago.

Harry mumbles something in agreement, his arms beginning to shake slightly from his own weight.

The desk squeaks, the legs scraping against the floor in protest with each of Harry’s thrusts. He grips the edges. “Shite, Harry don’t break the desk!”

“That would only add to the fantasy,” Harry grunts. Draco moans; he makes an excellent point. 

Harry’s cock pushes deeper and deeper into him, reaching places that Draco forgot could even bring pleasure. He couldn’t even imagine just how good Harry would feel writhing under his thighs as Draco rides him, slow and steady, with his hands pinned above his head. Harry would probably make those little noises he’s making now as Draco stares down at him…

“Fuck,” he gasps, gripping onto Harry’s arms. They were definitely going to try that once they had a proper bed underneath them.

“I won’t last much longer,” Harry groans into his ear just as he hits a particularly sensitive spot inside him. He runs a hand along his cock, making him whine when he flicks his thumb over the tip. Draco sharply bucks his hips up in approval. This man was going to be the death of him. 

He could feel the swelling orgasm in the junction of his thighs and he knew he was nearing closer to the edge too. “Look at me.” Draco’s hand finds its way into the short curls at the back of Harry’s head. He tugs at the hairs, willing him to open his closed eyes and look. “ _Harry._ ”

Draco would probably let him do anything he wants with his body, but after ten years, he thinks he’s earned the right to have this one request fulfilled.

Green eyes stare down at him, inches apart from his own as he comes, with Draco following in a close second on his stomach. Draco vows that the next time Harry comes, it will be in his mouth.

“Fuck,” Harry breathes in his ear. Draco pushes several sweaty black locks from his forehead, silently agreeing with the monosyllabic sentiment. Fuck indeed. He’s just shagged Harry Potter and he must say that the world's favorite hero certainly did not disappoint.

His body slumps over, his weight pinning Draco onto the desk. He hardly feels his legs, his flesh has turned into a mushy pile of that Muggle Jell-O food that Scorpius likes so much.

Harry’s breathing steadies, and for a moment, Draco’s nervous that Harry may fall asleep on top of him like this. He wouldn’t mind if they weren’t on top of Harry’s desk and in the middle of a children’s classroom with their cocks out.

Though, when Harry nuzzles his chest and wraps his arms around Draco’s midsection, he’s beginning to reconsider just how much he actually minds if Harry fell asleep right here. He could get used to this; lying in the sun with Harry’s inky black hair tickling his cheek, the distinguishable scent of sweat, sex, and woods filling his nostrils with each inhale.

“Mmhm, your moans sound as good as your singing.”

A laugh is caught in the center of his throat; he was not expecting to hear that after Harry literally _defiled_ him on his work desk. He is so tooth-achingly sweet, and the crazy part was that Draco knows that it is entirely earnest.

Still, because he had a reputation to uphold, he says, “I wish you would have told me that you turn into a sappy Hufflepuff after sex.”

“Not my fault…” Harry slurs tiredly. “Not usually…you’re too good…”

Draco rolls his eyes but smiles to himself, secretly pleased by Harry’s ramblings. He attempts to push Harry’s body off his chest. Merlin, he was like dead weight against him. “Come on you. Clearly you’re too old to stay awake after one orgasm.”

“Why?” He whines. “Mercury in ratiowave or something…?”

“ _Retrograde_ , Potter. And no, it won’t be until another two months. Now come on and get up.”

Harry hums something incoherently against his chest and Draco has to use all his strength to push a cuddly, post-orgasm Gryffindor off of his body. Harry has a loopy smile on his face when he’s placed onto his two feet. He looks a mess— his hair mussed to death, his shirt wrinkled and his flaccid cock hanging out of his black trousers. Dear Merlin, he looked a mess, but he was his mess. One that he had happily helped create.

Draco quickly fixes himself before sweeping Harry’s sluggish fingers away from his trousers and fixes Harry himself. 

He’s just smoothing out his shirt when Harry grabs his face and places a searing kiss on his mouth. A surprised squeak escapes his mouth, the bruising kiss leaving him delightfully lightheaded. 

“You’re right,” Harry murmurs when Draco has to pull away for air. “The reality is so much better than any fantasy.”

Draco can’t say he disagrees.

* * *

The owl blinks at him with bored, yellow eyes as he ties the envelope back into her leg. She must be awfully exhausted, besides the letters he and Harry exchange daily, she also has to take the lesson plans Harry sends to him nearly every morning. Even though it’s Sunday, Harry still sends tomorrow’s lesson to him, the lines for his approval crisp and ready for his signature. 

“Sorry girl,” He flips the owl a treat when he’s done tying. She eats it with unblinking eyes before flying off, her talons rudely scratching his window and leaving a long claw mark on the glass. Draco simmers. “Well fuck you too then!” 

From the corner of his eyes he sees his neighbor Miss Norrison staring at him with wide eyes as she waters her grass with one of those long snake-like things.

Burning in embarrassment from being caught yelling at an owl, he gives her a stiff wave. “Hullo Miss Norrison.” Shite, he really needs to put up better Muggle repellent charms or else his very nice neighbor will be wary of giving him slices of her homemade cakes.

She waves a wrinkled hand back. “Hi Draco, love. You alright over there?”

He plasters on a fake smile she probably can’t see with her old age. “Never better.” Draco discreetly magicks the claw mark away after he assures Miss Norrison that yes everything is really okay, yes he’ll pick up her groceries for her, and yes he’ll try that yellow cake when it’s ready. 

He ought to start sending his own owl soon. Perseus would _never_ embarrass him like that. 

Several minutes later the Floo roars to life and before he knows it, Harry is stomping into his office and waving a familiar looking parchment paper in Draco’s face, a fond smile on his lips. “Care to explain what this is?”

Draco dips his quill into his inkpot, unfazed by the paper he was referring to. “It’s a list.” A very thorough and thoughtful list as well.

“Yeah, I know,” Harry snorts. “A list that has things like, ‘don’t cast Glamour spells the first day of the Spring Equinox, don’t overexert your magical core with transfiguration spells on a Blue Moon, and any hexes you cast will be strongest between the civil twilight period and nautical twilight period? Don’t eat food off your lap when it’s daytime?’” His face twists in bewilderment at the last one. 

“I added that one in for your own personal benefit.” 

“I figured,” he grumbles. Draco smiles. He’ll drill table manners into Harry even if it killed him. “Don’t transform into your Animagus form when the Moon is waning?’ Draco, I’m not an Animagus!” He resists the urge to point out that it was perfectly sound advice if he ever _did_ become an Animagus. “Good Merlin, please tell me you don’t live your entire life around these made up rules?”

Offended, Draco bristles in his leather seat. Those ‘rules’ were hardly made up. “You do realize that most of that list is composed of my _research?_ Right?” He’s a bit miffed that Harry was inclined to brush off his warnings simply because they seemed a little odd. It’s not like he’s screaming his head off about nargles and wrackspurts. 

Though even if he was, one would think that any good boyfriend would at least play along. 

Disgruntled, Draco turns his full attention back to the calculations he had been solving before Harry came and started criticizing his work. 

“Draco—”

“Don’t care.” 

Harry comes behind the desk. “I’m sorry,” he says, brushing his fingers along the side of his cheek. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just, I never thought that you of all people would be so—”

“If you say superstitious, I will hex your eyebrows off.” 

He means it too, because Draco always detested being called that. Mainly because that’s what Astoria would call him. While there was nothing wrong with a healthy bit of skepticism, his work was not that. The universe, much like the ecosystem, affected humans just as much as humans affected the universe. It was a provable fact.

“Please don’t. I was going to say eccentric.”

That may actually be worse.

“ _Eccentric,_ ” Draco hisses, his quill snapping in revolt, “is Gilderoy Lockhart. Eccentric is my Aunt Bellatrix. Eccentric is Luna Lovegood. _That’s_ eccentric. I am completely normal and frankly, rather offended that you would think any differently.”

Harry braces a hand on the back of Draco’s seat, his face a mere centimeters away from Draco’s. “Lockhart is a narcissist, Bellatrix was demented, Luna’s quirky, and _you,_ ” he taps the tip of his nose, “are eccentric.” Draco rolls his eyes, trying to turn his chair away but Harry holds fast, gripping onto the arms with unsurprising strength. He’ll kill him for thumping his nose like a damn rabbit.

“Come on Draco, just look at your wall!” Harry gestures over to the twelve foot wall with parchment papers held up on it with sticking charms. There are so many papers stuck to the wall that it’s a bit of a shock remembering that underneath the rows of parchment, the wall was actually painted a gorgeous olive green color. His lists, including reminders about upcoming astronomical cycles and events, were plastered in meticulously neat rows. So he was a bit of a neat freak? That wasn’t too weird, right? 

He can’t get enough of it, personally. Everything makes sense on this wall; his research, his son’s needs, his life. It was the most brilliant thing he had invented to date and probably the one place that he knows has all of the answers.

“What’s wrong with it?”

Harry shakes his head, eyeing the various notes, figures, and calculations with the wide-eyed curiosity of a first year Hogwarts student. “Nothing. But really, who would have known that you were, well, like _this._ ” He laughs as he reads Draco’s reminder to avoid charming reptiles until Thalassa finishes its orbit. “You were always so posh and refined in school. Had I known that you were just hiding your secret love for astronomy and to-do lists by being a total arsewipe, it would have been a lot easier to reciprocate your taunts.”

Draco sniffs. “Just because you don’t understand or like something doesn’t make it weird.”

“I never said I didn’t like it,” Harry purrs. Draco licks his lips, enjoying Harry’s predatory gaze on his body. “In fact, I fucking love it.”

Draco smirks. “My eccentricity turns you on?”

“Very much so.”

Harry leans in to kiss his cheek and Draco tilts his head away right when his lips graze his cheekbone. “I want to show you something. I promise you, I’m not that much of a loon.”

A long sigh puffs out against his cheek. “I don’t—”

He waves him off. “I know. But let me just show you. And if I prove myself to you, then I believe I’ll be in for some recompensation.” He cocks his head upwards. “Please?”

A compromise. Because they could do that.

With an amused sigh, Harry sits atop his desk next to his self-orbiting Milky Way figure, waiting patiently to be shown that Draco was not a loon and was in fact, just a damn good astronomer. He throws his hands up in the air and lets them fall onto his thighs with a loud clap. “Do your worst Malfoy.”

Renewed with excitement, Draco jumps up, pulling his leather chair out from under the desk and to the center of the room. He pats the back of it. “Sit. You should be in a stable position and at ease when I do this.” 

With surprisingly little complaint, Harry does as he’s told. Draco’s hand snakes behind him and swats at his crossed legs. “Feet should be flat on the ground as well.” With a grumble, he stomps his both of his feet loudly on the flooring just to annoy him.

Draco turns the chair so that he’s angled right in front of the water fountain placed against the wall. It’s less of a water fountain and more of a crystal bowl of water spinning continuously around on an axle. The small ripples that form are subtle, consistent with the gravitational pull naturally occurring on Earth at the moment. It’s another sodding Waxing Gibbous, but in another minute there’ll be a Full Moon in this room.

“Watch the water,” he orders. He runs his hand through Harry’s hair as he obediently watches, the soft locks resisting his brushing and returning to their former position. He wishes he had a Calming Draught to neutralize the naturally occurring tension in his body, but this works too.

“You’re crazy,” Harry murmurs, though the comforting lull of Draco’s fingers and the calming sounds of the lapping water pull him under their spell. 

Draco smiles behind him. “I know. Now hush.” 

He waits several more minutes, brushing Harry’s hair and letting his touch ease away any tension from his body. When Harry’s back is sunk comfortably in the back of his chair and his breathing slows to a steady cadence, Draco asks, “How does it feel to you when you cast a spell?”

“Er… like a spell?” Draco pulls his head back by his hair and scowls at him, silently demanding for him to take this seriously. Harry rolls his eyes. “Fine, I guess, there’s vibrations and stuff. I don’t know exactly how to explain it—it just _happens_.”

“May I see your wand?”

Harry takes out his pocketed wand, relinquishing it to Draco without hesitation. The wand hums, unaccustomed to the unfamiliar magic gripping it. Draco takes out his own wand, giving Harry's a tap with his and handing it back to him. “Tell me how it feels now as you hold it.”

The effect is immediate. “What did you do?” He looks at the length of holly up and down with suspicious eyes. His neck tenses again.

“Relax, Harry,” he says gently, “I simply intensified the natural vibrations already occurring in your wand so that you can feel it. Nothing fancy. Wands are alive you know—in their own weird, magical way.” Ollivander nearly pissed himself in delight when Draco went to gather information from him several years ago. “You should know by now that your wand is simply a natural extension of your magic. When you feel unbalanced, your wand will internalize that imbalance in any spells you cast.”

Harry’s hair is so soft, gliding between his fingers with such glorious ease. He keeps speaking in a low, soft voice, letting the words glide off his tongue like the self-made tides in the fountain. 

“What I’m about to do is mimic the gravitational pull of a Full Moon in this room,” Draco informs him. “The tides are the highest then and the stability of your magic will be affected as well.”

After years of practice, the spell comes naturally to him. “How do you feel?” He hardly even needs to ask because he can feel Harry’s body tensing under his fingers.

Draco massages the pulsing pressure point at the juncture of his neck. _Relax._

He gulps. “Everything feels… off. Like something isn’t right but I just can’t… figure it out. And the vibrations from my wand…” Draco’s fingers lovingly touch the small beauty mark he has behind his ear. He understands. He’s conducted this experiment hundreds of times and there’s only one word Draco can accurately describe the feeling as. Anxiety. 

Those willing to go through with this exercise with him have described it like being in a building with a weak foundation or those moments after Apparating where nothing feels quite right. 

For Draco, this feeling was nothing but normal to him.

Draco runs his hands through his hair, from the crown to his nape, attempting to ease Harry’s growing anxiety lest he blow his house to pieces. He was literally playing with fire by doing this experiment with the most powerful wizard of their time. He needed him to be as calm as possible. Draco can nearly taste the drumming magic vibrating from Harry’s tensed body.

“Everything is about balance in the universe,” he says in the same soothing voice. “The Moon’s pull causes high and low tides. The Earth’s tilt causes the seasons; change it by merely five degrees and the Earth would never reach equilibrium. A wizard’s magic is just as susceptible to imbalance like everything else. Like the seas and the seasons, magic relies on balance. The moon, the stars, the meteors—they can all cause imbalances in our magical cores. The Full Moon effect I’ve created in this room has caused you to feel unsettled. So go on,” he bends down to his ear. “Cast a _Lumos._ ”

He can hear Harry swallow as he raises his wand with a precarious grip.

The resulting crack of exploding light startles Harry so badly that Draco has to grip him under the arms to keep him from falling out of his seat. Delighted laughter falls out of his mouth in waves. “Brilliant! How do you feel?”

Harry’s mouth gapes open and closed, with only shaken squeaks coming out. 

Draco laughs again, feeling that fiery sensation of adrenaline rush through his veins from another successful experiment. “Can you believe that that’s only one of the dozens of experiments I have? The rest are based on planetary motions, orbital patterns, supernovas… I’m assuming you're convinced?”

Harry’s hands are gripping the sides of his chair, his brown knuckles turning light. He cranes his head up to look at Draco, his eyes wary and large. “You are _terrifying_.”

“Told you.” He swoops down and picks Harry’s dropped wand off of the ground, holding it in the center of his palm for him to take. Tentative fingers grasp around the holly wood and he lets out an audible sigh of relief when the wand doesn’t react negatively at his touch. 

“But wait, how do I know you didn’t just magick my wand into doing that?”

Draco smirks. Always the skeptic. He juts a thumb behind him with a confident ease. “Look at the tides of the water fountain.”

Harry’s jaw drops slightly at the sight of the previously calmly spinning water fountain and soft ripples transformed into a bowl full of high, violent tides. High tides are natural for a Full Moon and by the look on Harry’s face, he knows this too.

“Terrifying,” he breathes. 

Draco lifts his chin up with his forefinger, pulling his gaze to his smirking face. “On your knees Potter. I believe I’m owed something.”

* * *

Harry’s name is doused in his mouth, and he knows from the way his tongue pushes deeper along the inside of his cheek and grazes along the ridges of his roof, that he can taste it too. 

Draco can honestly say that he’s never quite been the type of person to fall into obsession or to be addicted to something, but Merlin does Harry make him lose all pretense of his former self when his tongue is so deep inside him. Or when he’s on his knees, staring up at Harry as his teeth glide along the soft skin of his cock to remind him just who it was that was making him feel like this. 

As much as he’s loathed to admit it, Draco never had the opportunity to be sexual. 

There had been people before Harry, of course. 

Theodore Nott, who took his virginity and the first bit of his sanity too when he abruptly left for Belgium at the first stirrings of the war. 

A Hufflepuff whose name he can only recall with the help of a Pensieve. 

Then Astoria, obviously. He can count on his fingers the number of times they had sex, with both of them looking away during and afterwards each time, never talking or really touching more than necessary.

So Harry’s more experienced than Draco is, even though he’s spent the last decade with a woman. He doesn’t judge or mock him. When Draco asked for him to show him what he liked, he does, taking his hand and placing it here, nudging him there, petting his hair when he does something he likes and tugging when he doesn’t. 

Draco teaches him about the stars and the universe; Harry teaches him about sex.

When Harry asked what it is Draco liked, he couldn’t come up with an answer better than, “I don’t know.”

“We’ll change that,” Harry had promised.

He learns more about himself and what he needs more than he has in ten years with Astoria. Like, for example, Draco finds that he hates topping, no matter how much he wills himself to do so. Harry’s amazing of course, but those seven times of having sex with Astoria has given him an irreversible aversion to it. Bottoming could hurt at times, but doing something he’s uncomfortable with hurts worse.

He finds that he needs eye contact during sex, another peculiarity gifted to him by his ex-wife. It’s not so bad, because he really liked seeing those moments when Harry’s jaw tightens under his beard as he tries not to come, or the ripple of his shoulder muscles as he thrusts deeper into him. 

Draco also learns that sex, as it turns out, can happen _anywhere._ There’s truly no structure to it; it can happen from the turn of a head, a touch on Draco’s arm, a kiss on the neck. It can happen like it has now, with Draco pulling Harry into a storage closet in his son’s school and dropping to his knees without an ounce of warning. Because he can. Because he wants to. 

Harry leans down and moans into his mouth, “It’s like you were made to suck cock.” 

He may be made to suck cock, but his knees were not. He begins to rise, wincing as he does. As much as he loved Harry looking down in awe at him as he sucked him off, Draco was beginning to think that he was getting a bit too old to stay on his knees for an extended period of time. Granted, 31 wasn’t that old but it was old enough to complain. 

Draco’s taller stature was a blessing, unless he was in a cramped cupboard with mops and an overflowing of cleaning supplies hanging from the shelves. The top of his head hits the bottom of a bucket hung from a hook and he curses. “Bloody hell,” he hisses. 

They really need to stop shagging in closets. 

“Aw Draco, maybe that’s a sign,” Harry tsks, reaching up to rub the top of Draco’s stinging head with sympathetic eyes. “Maybe it’s just the universe’s way of telling you that you look better on your knees.”

Draco lets out a bark of laughter. “Shove off!” He flicks Harry’s hand off of his head.

That’s another thing he can say that he’s learned. Surprisingly enough, sex can also be fun. Like, _actually_ fun. At least with Harry it is. If they're not competing to see who can make the other come first, they’re probably laughing their arses off. 

There’s something beautifully intimate about being able to laugh with a person while you’re both stark naked. Draco begins to care less about orgasming, something that he knew was going to happen anyway, and more about those moments when Harry absentmindedly runs his fingers up and down the expanse of skin. Or those endearingly small moans Harry makes when Draco rides him. Or better yet, the laughs from both of them when Harry tries (and fails) to talk dirty.

They’ll probably never get it just right, but it doesn’t matter much. Sex is so much more than it’s ending when you’re doing it with a person who you actually care for. A relationship doesn’t always have to feel like a trap. Who would have known that the antidote for his past lied in Harry Potter’s calloused hands?

He hisses in pain through his laughter. “Ugh, but my head really does hurt.” He rubs the spot in an attempt to soothe the throbbing. They had to stop degrading themselves by shagging in closets. 

“Bloody wimp. Come here,” Harry tilts his head down, needing to stand up on tip toes to press a gentle kiss on the spot. “Better?”

Draco sighs into the crook of his neck. “Better.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I personally hated this chapter. I hate writing sex scenes more than anything in the world but I love them in fics and I know a lot of people do too. The only way I can get through writing them is by making it as purposefully awkward as possibly. So here y'all go; my very awkward, very first published sex scene. I did my best lmao.
> 
> Comments and kudos are loved and appreciated, even for chapters I would Incendio if I could.


	7. Pisces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if anyone here watches She-Ra and the Princess of Powers... but I just finished binge-watching the last season and I think I'm dying??? But like, in a good way??

Dinner with Pansy and Blaise is always a loud affair. For one because Pansy had an innate inability to speak quietly and two because she and Blaise are, to put it frankly, complete arseholes. Draco knew that it was going to be especially bad tonight seeing that it’s been weeks since he’s last visited them. Harry has not only consumed his mind but his time as well.

“I bet you get A’s on all of your exams, don’t you Scorp?” Pansy asks. She shoves a large scoop of wild rice into her mouth. “Perss of Daddy bein’ the teacher’s pet, eh?” Her mouthful of rice doesn’t stop her from making a joke at his expense. 

Blaise laughs at his wife’s crude behavior and Draco wrinkles his nose. He didn’t know if all couples were this awful or they were just awful themselves.

“There is no such thing occurring at Scorpius’ school. Every mark he gets, he earns it. Isn’t that right, Scorpius?”

Scorpius nods readily, making sure to swallow his food and wipe his mouth with a napkin before speaking. Chin in the air, Draco puffs up in pride. His ten year old son had more manners than his adult best friends.

“Yeah,” says a bright-eyed Scorpius, “Like last week, I failed his exam!”

Blaise and Pansy lose it, burying their faces in their hands and guffawing loudly. 

“ _Scorpius!_ ” Draco hisses, not knowing whether to be more appalled that he failed his test or that he was bragging that he failed his test. Draco rubs his temples, his friends laughing away. 

He hates couples. 

There’s a thud on the window and Harry’s speckled brown owl is sitting on the stoop, her eyes trained on Draco. If he looks closely, Draco swears he sees something akin to hatred in her yellow gaze.

He groans a little as he takes the envelope from her, knowing that his friends would hop on this moment like the animals they were and taunt him relentlessly about it. That was the thing about his best friends, they never cared who was in the room with him, because their main prerogative was to embarrass the hell out of Draco no matter the situation.

“That’s Mr. Potter’s owl,” Scorpius informs his friends, ignoring Draco’s pleading look to _not_ say anything. That little snitch. Would it be cruel to ground a child for a year? 

“ _Oooo_ ,” Blaise and Pansy say together, wagging their eyebrows in unison. Draco wrinkles his nose. He and Harry were definitely _not_ like that. Blaise leans forward over the dinner table, a dastardly grin on his face. “What _did_ Mr. Potter write to you, Draco?”

He waits until Scorpius’ eyes are fixed on his plate of food then quickly flips two fingers his way.

_Draco,_

_My students and I drew constellations today from your Lost Constellations book. Now, I’ve been told that I cannot sing, or paint, or do any advanced spells other than Expelliarmus, but I think you’ll be very pleased by my drawing of your constellation. I hope I did it justice._

_-H_

Draco laughed when he pulled out the Draco constellation Harry drew. The thing looked like a crooked sperm for Salazar’s sake. Good god, it was awful. But it was Harry’s and Draco would most definitely be hanging this up on his wall next to Scorpius’ drawings.

“Don’t you and Mr. Potter ever get tired?”

Draco looks up from the drawing, puzzled by Scorpius’ sudden question. “Tired of what?”

“Of the long distance flirting.” 

Pansy throws her head back and laughs, her virgin drink spilling into her hand. “I’m going to pee! I swear I’m going to!” Her fists bang on the table and she cackles loudly.

Serves her right if she does, the sodding bint. 

Blaise could fuck off too because he’s enjoying this far too much for a person whose Draco’s deemed as the most pussy-whipped man of the century. Pansy laughs breathily, “Hun, help me up, I’m going to pee.” She puts a hand on Blaise’s shaking shoulders. Pansy sucks in a breath, her drink-covered hand resting on the top of her stomach. “I’m really going to—”

She gasps, frozen in place. Then she’s standing up, the bottom half of her silk purple dress soaked. “Fuck, Blaise stop laughing! My water broke!”

Blaise chokes on his laughter and a bit of the asparagus he had just shoved into his mouth. “Now?!” 

Draco abruptly stands up, his chair scraping loudly on the tile and his hands flying to his hair. “On my kitchen floor?!”

Pansy’s glare is lethal. “Yes now and yes on your bloody floor! Bloody fuck, someone Floo us to St. Mungo’s before I birth a baby here!” Her shaking hands fly to her stomach as if trying to will the baby to not make its grand entrance on Draco’s very expensive and very polished floors.

Scorpius, who had been watching the scene unfold with wide, pale eyes, is the first one between the four of them to reach the Floo powder, pinching a bit into the fire like he’s seen Draco do and calling out for St. Mungo’s.

Blaise and Draco help bring Pansy over to Floo, her hands still clutching her stomach. “You’re the only responsible person in this house, twerp,” she groans out to Scorpius, patting him on the cheek as she and Blaise disappear into the flames. 

“Bloody hell,” Draco breathes, still looking at the fireplace as the flames turn back to their original striking orange hue. His best friends were going to be parents. Today. Now. 

Their child will be a Pisces.

Scorpius looks up and gives him a full, pink-lipped smile. “I love Aunt Pansy.”

“Yeah, I bet you do,” Draco mutters, the feeling still surreal. He looks at Scorpius. “Go pack your things. You’ll need to stay at my mother’s for the night.” As much as he would rather take Scorpius with him, he was never the type of kid that would willingly give up his rest for an adventure. He’ll be whining to go back home before Pansy is even in her hospital bed.

“Can’t. Grandma’s in Singapore, remember?”

Draco groans. She was in Singapore with Mrs. Parkinson, visiting the maternal side of Pansy’s family ancestry. Those two and Blaise’s mother had always gotten along beautifully and would frequently take trips together. But why, out of all times, did their mothers think that this would be the perfect time to leave the country? Sometimes he doesn’t understand people.

“Harry’s.” He nods decidedly, “We’ll ask Harry.”

* * *

Harry is more than willing to watch Scorpius, and Draco’s grateful. It’s nearly one in the morning when Draco Apparates himself back to Harry’s and either Scorpius would have been a very grumpy ten year old at the moment or Draco would have had to leave it to Blaise to calm Pansy down from her panic attack. 

Pansy hadn’t given birth yet, the Healer saying something about her not being dilated yet. They estimate that it'll be another seven hours before she can start labor so there was no reason to stick around. He’ll be back in the morning of course, but for now, he’d rather sleep on his personal black-haired pillow than in a stiff hospital chair. 

The lights are turned on when he comes in, and he hears something, an animal possibly, wailing. “Good Merlin…” he whispers, his nose wrinkling. The sound claws at his eardrums painfully. If that’s what a pregnant Pygmy Puff sounded like, he was in for an even longer night.

“Scorpius,” he hisses, “ _Scorpius!_ ” There’s giggling on the second floor and Draco climbs up the stairs. “Albus?” 

The closer he gets, he realizes that it’s not an animal wailing. It’s Harry. _Singing._

Draco tip-toes closer to the cracked bedroom door, highly amused when he’s greeted with Harry’s attempts to serenade the three children sitting together on the bed, each of their faces wearing different levels of amusement and disgust. Lily has taken to hiding her giggles under the comforter with a weird printed humanoid car on it. Muggle movies—he could never understand them.

Harry’s singing some Muggle song, though terribly butchering it and humming when he forgets some of the lyrics. Draco smiled stupidly behind the closed door, taking advantage of his hidden presence to enjoy what was happening. 

Call him a sap, but Draco secretly loved hearing Harry sing. 

It certainly wasn’t because he could either, it was actually the complete opposite. Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the most powerful wizard of their time, couldn’t hold a damn note if Voldemort had him at wandpoint. Bless his heart, but it was so endearing to watch him genuinely try to carry a tune that was just too heavy for him to pick up.

Cracked notes, awful runs, and landing on keys that didn’t exist. That was Harry Potter singing, and Draco would listen to it for the rest of his life if he could. 

He wasn’t a teenager anymore. Draco knows he feels something irreplaceable for Harry; he’s never needed a grand moment of clarity to figure that out. He trusts him with Scorpius, and even though he hasn’t said it, from the way Harry’s eyes widened when Draco Floo-called him tonight, he knows it too. He trusts him with a lot of things, including his secrets and his body.

Yet watching Harry attempt to sing songs to Scorpius, Albus, and Lily’s amused faces made him realize that he cared for him far deeper than he realized.

“Boo!” Albus cries, his little face wrinkled in disgust. “You’re awful, Dad!”

Harry gasps, feigning disbelief. “What? Are you two saying that you _don’t_ like my singing?” He motions over to a cackling Lily for support, “Do you think it’s bad too Lils?”

Clearly not wanting to hurt her father’s feelings, she offers a neutral, “You sound like a cat!” 

Albus snorts. “Yeah, a dying one.” Scorpius hides his laughter into his green dragon. “Ugh, where’s Mr. Malfoy when you need him?”

“He’s—”

“Here.” Draco steps into view, feeling a bit like a celebrity when Albus claps at his presence. 

“Here,” Harry echoes faintly, his eyes softening at the sight of him. “He’s here.”

He sits down on his knees next to Harry and he doesn’t hesitate to kiss him after a long night. Their sons give various exaggerated groans of disgust, with only Lily aww-ing in approval.

“How did it go?” Harry asks when he pulls back. Sitting comfortably in Lily’s lap, Optimus Prime flickers her tongue in the air to punctuate his question.

He sighs, exhausted at the thought of the next nine hours his best friends have to endure. “There’ll be another Zabini running around soon, so that’s always great.” Groaning, he adds, “And my kitchen floor will need to be thoroughly Scourgified tomorrow.”

Harry cocks his brow. 

“Don’t ask.”

“Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Malfoy!” Albus shouts as if he wasn’t a mere two feet away from him. Draco tries not to wince. This kid will never be allowed in Madam Pince’s library if he doesn’t learn how to use his inside voice. “Can you _please_ show Dad how to properly sing?” A smug grin appears on his face, an unusual sight with his easy-going demeanor. “You did promise me, remember?”

Draco groans. He should know better than to promise things to kids. Especially kids named Albus Potter. He rubs his neck, breaking out into a coughing fit, “Oh geez, my throat hurts. Maybe tomorrow?” Or never—that was fine too.

“Liar,” Harry coughs. Draco pinches him. Parents were always supposed to side _against_ the children.

When Lily’s lower lip begins to turn into a small pout, Draco knows he’s going to crack very, very soon. She clasps her hands together. “Please Mr. Malfoy?” Her little voice is so bloody adorable and Draco doesn’t know how Harry can stand to _not_ spoil her rotten. “Can you sing the mermaid song?”

He’s sure his face is burning. She had forced him and Scorpius to watch that Muggle movie with the red-haired mermaid and he knew exactly which song she was referring to. From the way Harry and Albus were snickering, they knew the one too.

Her dark brown eyes are as big as saucers, and he feels the last bit of his resolve break. 

Bloody fuck. 

Lily looks ready to burst from excitement as he sings, even mouthing some of the words when he trails off and forgets the lyrics. Albus leans forward, far too close to his face to be socially acceptable. Scorpius looks rather bored, possibly because of his secret hatred for the movie that Lily forced him to watch three times over. 

He doesn’t even need to turn his head to know that Harry’s watching him with an intensity worse than Albus’. He can feel him staring into the side of his face and Draco doesn’t think he can possibly blush harder than he most definitely was at the moment. 

The children are just beginning to clap as he finishes the end of the song when Harry stands up, looping an arm under Draco’s and dragging him up as well.

“Not a peep,” Harry warns the three children, tugging Draco out of their room and into Harry’s with a startling amount of strength. 

Draco finds himself in the same room he had woken up in that night after his god awful date. He thought he hadn’t been in his room before but he was wrong. Apparently, Harry didn’t just deposit him into a random guest bedroom that night. “Harry, why are you—?”

Harry’s hands fly to the buttons of Draco’s shirt and he knows it was taking every inch of self-control to not rip the things off. Draco does him a solid and Vanishes his shirt. 

“Oh so you can Vanish your clothing but I can’t?”

He shrugs, “I didn’t like that shirt much anyway.” Besides, he was planning on stealing one of Harry’s tonight anyway. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Harry’s face is ruddy and he’s clearly trying to deflect from the truth by the way he kept pawing at Draco’s hair. Finally, he says in a small, gruff voice, “I may have a bit of a thing for your singing.” 

Feeling bold, Draco places his hand in between Harry’s legs and squeezes. He hums in approval. Oh, he has a thing alright. A very _above average_ thing from what he can feel.

His mouth curls into a smug grin. Even after all this time, it was nice to have leverage against Harry Potter. “Merlin, is that all it takes Potter? Well, let’s see if I can do something about that thing for you.”

He’s so tired that he could sleep for an entire moon cycle but seeing Harry’s face as he drops to his knees and unbuckles the front of his straining trousers is worth the missed sleep. 

“I swear you do this on purpose,” Harry moans as Draco takes the tip of his cock into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip. He sucks harder, faster, going as quickly as he could to get Harry off. Lest he falls asleep with a cock in his mouth, Draco wisely skips his usual bit of teasing. “I’d say you’re a bigger arse now than you were in school.”

Just for that, Draco lightly grazed his canines along the soft flesh.

Harry hisses, “Ow!”

“Sorry,” he sneers, “my jaw slipped.” Harry really ought to know better than to talk shite to a person who currently had his cock in their mouth. 

There’s a loud thud and Draco pulls his head back, cocking it curiously at the sound of feet pounding against the floor. “Do you hear that?”

He looks up at Harry, still in the throes of his nearing orgasm. He shakes his head vigorously. “Nope, nothing.” He no not so subtly pushes his hips forward, rudely shoving his wettened cock in Draco’s face. 

“Potter!” Draco hisses, moving his face away from Harry’s hips. 

“Fuck, I love it when you call me that,” Harry admits in a breathy voice. Draco wrinkles his nose, pushing off his knees and rising to the door. Bloody Gryffindors and their tactlessness. 

“Put that away,” he orders, gesturing to Harry’s undone trousers. Harry obliges but not without whining like a child. Like _their_ children. Their very loud children. 

Clearly, Harry’s warning didn’t have much of an effect on their noise level because when they peek through the crack of the door, their children were far louder than they left them.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” Shouts Albus, jumping off the bed and pretending to seize Scorpius’ imaginary wand. Albus puffs up proudly. “That’s the one Dad used to defeat Voldemort. Mum says it’s the only one he’s good at though.”

Draco snickers. “That’s not true,” mutters Harry in his ear. 

“ _Incendio!_ ” Scorpius fires, waving his hands around as if there was a loud explosion. “That’s my Dad’s favorite. He uses it when he’s mad.”

Harry snorts. “Who would have known?”

Draco elbows him in the ribs. “Shut up,” he hisses, but he’s laughing too much for it to have any real venom behind the words.

He falls back into the bed once Harry drags him away. His muscles sigh in relief at the soft comfort and Draco promises himself to remember his age more often. That was the best thing about being an adult—he can always blame everything on being old.

After a moment’s hesitation, Harry joins him. He rolls over, shyly poking his cheek with his forefinger. “Sooo… you’re just going to sleep then?”

“Yup.”

“You’re not gonna maybe… finish?”

As soon as he suggests that he finish, Draco closes his eyes, letting his head loll to the side as he pretends to snore. His jaw was aching and good Merlin, he'd do just about anything to get a few moments of sleep— anything except putting a cock in his mouth. He was 31 years old, nearly 32, and Draco thinks he can honestly say that he’s a bit too old to stay up past midnight on a good night. Much less suck someone off at one am. 

A pillow hits his face and he buries his face in the bed to muffle his laughter. 

“Prat.” 

“Git.”

“My throat hurts.” And this time, he wasn’t lying. 

Harry grumbles, seeming to let it go and allow Draco to sleep. His eyes are just fluttering shut when he notices the bedspread between Harry’s legs moving rhythmically.

“Are you wanking? Really Potter?” He rolls over on the bed, glancing curiously at the sharp tugs of Harry’s hand under the comforter before turning away, scowling into his pillow. Fucking Gryffindors.

Yet Harry keeps writhing next to him and the more he does, the harder it is to fall asleep. 

Giving in, he taps his shoulder and one of Harry’s eyes cracks open, his hand slowing just a bit. 

“What?”

“Can I watch?”

“You’re a pervert Malfoy.”

He says this as he pulls down the blanket for him and Draco feels his inner sixteen year old self faint a little at the sight. Even though it's only several tugs before he’s coming into his hand, the look on Harry’s face as he does is exhilarating to watch from this angle. 

“Harry?”

His chest is rising and falling from his orgasm, legs quivering slightly under the sheets. “Hm?”

Draco lifts his head so that his chin is resting on Harry’s shoulder. “Did Scorpius ever fail one of your exams?”

The resounding snort from Harry reverberates around the dark room. “Scorpius is one of my best students. The only student who fails my exams is Albus. Why?”

 _That little…_ “Nothing. Goodnight.” He pauses, tests the waters before saying quietly, “I… I care about you. A lot.” It’s not quite a proclamation of love, but it’s there, so close to what he will say one day to him.

He feels Harry smile in his hair, nuzzling his cheek into the crown of his head. “I care about you too Draco.”

* * *

Wall or desk? 

Draco stares at the picture of Marcéline, Pansy and Blaise’s gorgeous newborn daughter wrapped up in a dark green blanket, trying to decide where he should place the photo. The wall was a prime place to put any important artifacts such as this one, but his desk was far more intimate and closer to him while he’s working.

He doesn’t quite fancy the idea of placing the first photo of his goddaughter in the middle of a bunch of nonsensical looking calculations either.

The Floo whooshes to life and he drops down to his knees, relieved to see Harry’s face staring back at him. 

“Harry! Good, I need your opinion: wall or desk?”

“Er… I don’t really—”

“Desk, you’re right.”

They work really well together, Draco surmises as he goes to place the photo on his desk for later. Next he’ll have to figure just _where_ on his desk he places her at. Merlin, this may take all night.

“Draco…”

He stills. He knows that voice. That’s the voice Harry uses when he wants something. Draco straightens back, dropping back down in front of the fireplace and staring warily at him. “Well? Be a Gryffindor and spit it out.” He crinkles his nose. “You clearly want something from me.”

Nervous fear flashes past Harry’s face for several moments before he finally says in a single breath, “I want you to have dinner with Ron, Hermione, and I.”

“No.”

“Draco!”

He fixes his with a flat look. “I quite like my skin on my body, thank you. Besides I haven’t asked you to meet with Pansy and Blaise.”

Somehow, Harry still manages to look imposing even in the flames. “That’s the thing, you’ve never asked. If you did, I would have said yes.” He rolls his eyes. Harry says that, but he doesn’t know Pansy and Blaise beyond his rudimentary knowledge of them in school. They could be vicious, especially when it came to him. “Draco, Hermione and Ron are a big part of my life and I want you to meet them.”

Draco scowls. “In case you’ve forgotten, I have already met your friends.”

“You know what I mean,” he snaps. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he takes three deep breaths, his annoyance dispersing once he does. Draco’s scowl deepens. Why can’t he do that? “Look, I know you aren’t on the best of terms with them—”

“That’s an underestimate.”

“—Or very fond of them.”

“I haven’t said anything of the sort.”

His jaw clenches under his beard and Draco knows he is starting to tread on thin ice with him. “What’s your problem with them? They already know about us, it’s not like it's some big secret. And before you say anything, no, they don’t hate you anymore. You said it yourself, some of us have grown up since Hogwarts.” He waves a hand between Draco and himself pointedly. “So why can’t you give them a chance?”

Draco thinks he would rather give mutilating himself a chance before Granger and Weasley. But as much as it worked his nerves, Harry was a package deal. Him and the other misfits of the Golden Arseholes were inseparable in the same way that Pansy and Blaise were for him. Though, he wasn’t asking Harry to have dinner with _his_ best friends.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “What day?”

The relief on Harry’s face almost makes it worth it. Almost. “This Saturday fine?”

“Sorry, dinner with my mother.”

“Okay… how about next?”

“Can’t. The Moon is passing in front of Mars. I should stay inside that day.”

Harry’s dark brows knit together. “Is there _any_ Saturday you’ll be available?”

“If I say no will I get out of doing this?

_“Malfoy.”_

_“Potter.”_

Harry sits back, the green flames highlighting the tight lines in his face. “You know, if you were just going to be an arse about this, you could have at least had the decency to tell me.”

“Harry, I—”

He draws back on to his heels when the flames turn orange and Harry’s face is gone from the fireplace. “Fuck.”

Just thinking about being in the same room with Granger and Weasley makes his tongue dry and his skin prickle with perspiration. Yet he impulsively takes out a stray parchment paper and quill, resolving himself not to let his own insecurities ruin a good thing. Harry is a good thing and he would be a fool to not do this for him.

_This Saturday. 8 PM. The Red Lion._

_-D_

Perseus cocks his head. As far as animals go, he was a strong contender as his favorite, along with Princess of course, but Draco never liked how bloody perceptive he was. 

“Oh don’t look at me like that,” he grumbles to his owl before realizing that he was once again talking to an animal. Stupid Potter and his stupid dimples and even stupider friends have gotten his head messed up like he was sixteen all over again. 

With a quick treat and a scratch on the head, Draco sends him off, stewing in the realization that in a few days, he is going to be forced into a cramped dinner table to play nice with Weasel and Granger. 

He slouches into his leather chair, the photo of Marcéline clutched in his fingers. He places the framed photo in front of the Milky Way structure that twinkles as it moves about on the magical orbit Draco created. 

There. That was perfect.

* * *

“You’re going to make this as difficult as possible, aren’t you?” Harry asks, grunting as he tugs Draco along. He had been shuffling his feet in a way that would cause his mother and Charm School tutor to have kittens. “I knew we should have just chanced Apparating,” he grumbles. They couldn’t, because the place Draco had specified was in the middle of Muggle London and without any Apparition points close by, they were doomed to get there the Muggle way.

“Maybe this is a sign, that we’re not ready, that we should go back.”

Harry’s shoulders slump. “Ron and Hermione aren’t animals, Draco. As long as you don’t provoke them, they won’t be nasty to you.”

Draco curls in on himself. “That sounds a lot like animal behavior to me.”

“Come on you.”

From the evening darkness, the glowing sign of The Red Lion greets them as they walk towards the building. Draco wrinkles his nose. The logo on the flag outside looks far too much like the Gryffindor emblem for his tastes. Merlin, why did he think to go here of all places?

He can hardly continue walking in a straight line when he sees Harry’s best friends seated in a booth near the window. They look decent, surprisingly. His face is still too freckled and her hair is still incredibly bushy but they seem to have grown into their looks with age. 

Draco nervously touches the neat loops in his braid. He wonders if he’s simply grown into his father’s features.

They welcome him as warmly as they can muster. Granger squeezes his arm and Weasley gives his hand two quick shakes before stuffing his hand back into his pocket. 

Draco can tell they’re trying their hardest not to let their eyes linger doubtfully for too long. He bets if they shift their perspective just a degree differently, they’ll see Harry and Draco, not Potter and Malfoy in front of them.

“Who would have thought?” Weasley scoffs, breaking the building tension. He drags his eyes back and forth between them, looking a bit green under his freckles. 

The sickly tint of his face intensifies under the soft yellow restaurant lights when Harry wraps an arm around Draco’s waist, pulling him closer in the small booth seat. “It explains a lot when you think about it.” Draco laughs, the sound too high pitched and fast to be considered sane, though his friends are none the wiser. He was hardly sane to them as it was.

Weasley and Granger, or he supposes he should just call them Ron and Hermione since they were both technically Weasleys now, are exactly like he imagined that they would be as adults. Still a piggish eater and an annoying encyclopedia of information. 

Yet, he’s surprised to find that he doesn’t quite mind it all that much. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He does mind, but his sodding nerves made it possible for him to care.

“You know, I thought Harry had gone barking mad when he said that he was teaching your son,” Ron recounts through a mouth stuffed full of the fancy little appetizers the waitress sat in front of them. “Still think he is.”

“Ron,” Hermione hissed. She at least seemed capable of handling a knife and fork unlike her husband, who hadn’t bothered to unravel his clothed utensils. “Don’t.”

Please, because Ron speaking would mean Draco has to look at him while he talks. It’s bad enough that he doesn’t chew with his mouth closed. Unfortunately, Draco’s also came to the awful realization that he was a mouth-breather as well.

Draco can’t bring himself to eat, his hands trembling an embarrassing amount. He stuffed them under his thighs, only leaning forward to take a sip of his water through his straw. His Charm School tutor would have maimed him for his lack of manners. But really, fuck manners when he was on the verge of exploding.

Harry does most of the talking, thank God, because Draco can feel his throat beginning to close up. There are so many people here, so much noise occurring in one tiny building. Muggles are very, very loud. And so are Harry and his friends, it seems. 

The three laugh loudly over some joke Draco wasn’t in on, startling him. Harry explains it in his ear so that he doesn’t feel left out but he couldn’t care less about feeling left out. He wishes he was.

The pretty, pink-haired waitress comes and places their ordered food in front of them. Ron digs in without remorse, slobbering over his plate of steak and potatoes worse than Harry. He points to the soup Draco has in front of him. “That’s all?” He shakes his head. “Couldn’t be me.”

Draco plasters on a fake smile. “I prefer Harry’s cooking the best.” Which wasn’t a complete lie. He also doesn’t think he could eat anything heavier without vomiting from nervousness that won’t fucking go away.

Hermione smiles to herself and Ron groans in exaggeration. “Gross.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Hermione states firmly over her wine glass. “Don’t be upset because your cooking is rubbish.” 

Ron gasps and the two go at it, bickering between themselves with a lightheartedness that Draco hadn’t expected from them. Harry watches, a smile on his face as he leans over to whisper in Draco’s ear. “Are you okay?” He eyes Draco’s untouched soup with worried eyes, his smile faltering.

He nods. “Not very hungry is all.”

Harry purses his lips and grips his hand tighter, the other playing his braid with gentle fingers.

He takes a breath that’s a bit too loud for it to go unnoticed by the rest of the table. Draco’s been trying so hard to control his breathing that it becomes an unnatural endeavor. 

No one is supposed to be this aware of their own breathing. But Draco is, and he misses Hermione’s question as a result.

“Malfoy.”

He snaps his head up, less no more centered than he did before he started pacing his breaths. All eyes are on him, various levels of concerned curiosity laced in them. “Yes?”

His jaw aches when he unclenches it. He needs to stop doing that. 

“I asked what your research was about,” Hermione asks in an overly patient tone. Bloody fuck she was too good at reading people. “Harry says you’re an astronomer.”

Research, yes. He can talk about that. Draco begins to explain his research when a loud clap jostles him. The table next to them bursts into song, wishing a happy birthday to a smiling blonde girl with pigtails who had to be no older than Lily’s age, causing him to lose his entire train of thought. Why did he think this was a good idea? They should have done this in the comfort of Harry’s home, not among a crowded group of strangers who were staring at him, Merlin, he swore they were staring at him. He begins to sweat. 

Harry taps his forearm. The other patrons weren’t staring at him, but Ron and Hermione were. Ron cocks his head, “Mal—”

“Astronomy, yes! Um, yes, I do astronomy. I mean.. I _study_ astronomy. Like the Sun and Moon and… galaxies.”

He curses himself. Of all the fucking times for him to talk about his research, _now_ he finds himself unable to do it? The universe had a warped sense of humor. 

Harry swoops in and saves him, retelling in detail about one of Draco’s studies on his wall about the Earth in perihelion and the strength of blood curses. He hadn’t told him about that one, seeing that there was very little room to conduct an experiment ethically, but he’s so fucking grateful that he had the good grace to speak for him. 

Ron snorts into his drink when Harry’s done explaining. “Sounds like a load of bollocks.” Hermione curls her upper lip and from the sharp squeak he lets out, Draco can only assume that she pinched his thigh. “I-I mean that sounds super interesting!” He clears his throat, leaning forward with feigned interest on his face. “Please, tell me more.” 

He needs water. Or liquor. No, water. No one needs to witness Draco’s Death Eater Blues spectacle again. 

“You’re right.” Ron raises a red brow at Draco’s bold statement. “My research is boring. Gr—Hermione. What is it that you do?”

Deflection. Possibly the greatest weapon a Malfoy could master. 

It works like a charm because apparently, that was all Hermione needed to dive into a lengthy one-sided discussion about her Ministry work, her werewolf activism, and literally every single fault in the government. Harry and Ron indulge her as best as they can, nodding and asking questions while secretly exchanging bored looks each other’s way. 

He can breathe a little easier as she rabbits away, but not by much. In the past forty-five minutes since she's started talking, he still hasn’t been able to touch his soup without revealing his shaking hands. He has to settle with taking large sips of water to keep himself busy and to wet his dry throat. 

The waitress comes by to refill his water for the fourth time. “Merlin Malfoy,” Ron mutters, cutting Hermione off mid-soliloquy, “thirsty much?” 

Hermione purses her lips together, examining him with a quizzical eye. Draco has never felt more uncomfortable in his life. 

He feels awful. He’s panicking around people who should be nervous around him. It’s not like they were the ones who made his life a living hell every day in school. He doesn’t have the right to feel anxious.

“I’m sorry.” 

They stop moving, Hermione’s fingers clenching tightly around her empty wine stem and the last bit of food Ron was about to stuff his face with stopping midway on its journey to his mouth. Harry tenses next to him. 

He swallows, hating that his throat was still drier than a desert despite how much water he’s been drinking. “I never said I was sorry for… everything. So, I’m sorry.”

Ron sets his fork down, shrugging. “You should be.”

Not even Hermione has anything to say to refute his statement.

Harry tries his hardest to turn the conversation around but no one else seems much in the mood to go back to the playful air they once had. This would have been so much easier had they just had dinner at Harry’s house. Maybe there he wouldn’t have felt like his skin was crawling from nerves and he would have been able to carry on a decent conversation with them.

“I think,” Hermione says after the waitress places their tabs on the table, “If Harry’s managed to move on, then perhaps we can too. Agreed?” 

Ron drums his fingers on the table for several minutes, staring at Draco with an intensity that makes his stomach tie into knots. He leans back into the booth, his face giving away nothing. 

“I’ll give the ferret a chance,” He narrows his eyes, challenging Draco to blow up over the snip as he slams a stack of Muggle money on the table for the waitress. “But just one. Don’t make me regret it.”

He for one, regrets a lot of things, including ever agreeing to do this.

Draco clutches at his chest once they’re outside, the night’s winds not strong enough to blow away tonight’s failure. He doesn’t know whether the hyperventilating begins before or after Ron and Hermione say their goodbyes to them. All he knows is that it took everything in him to put on a fake smile and choke out a parting goodbye before he’s hunched over with his hand on his heart, breathing out far more air than he’s inhaling. 

“See that wasn’t so bad… Draco?” Harry’s eyes flash with concern when he turns and sees Draco hunched over. “Draco?”

Taking the deepest breath he can, Draco focuses on calming his racing heart for the millionth time. He needs to stay away from large crowds of people. And Harry’s friends. And literally anything that makes his nerves burn like this.

“Just gonna…” He sinks down to his knees on the sidewalk, hand still clutched on his chest as he tries to ground himself. Several people look horrified as they walk by and their concern only seems to make everything worse. “Just for a moment.”

The London air is surprisingly clean for a place with nearly no stars visible in the sky, but somehow it only feels like the sharp pricks of razor ice in his lungs. At least the Moon is visible. At least. 

“Draco,” Harry whimpers, rubbing his back, “I’m sorry, I should have never suggested we do this.”

Draco waves him off, swallowing several times to try to lubricate his dry throat. All of the water in his body has gone to his eyes, his face soaked in tears for no reason other than because he can’t breathe. “No,” he wheezes, “Compromises.”

Harry looks as though he had no sodding clue what Draco was babbling about, but he nods anyway in vague understanding, sitting down on his knees next to him in the middle of Muggle London and rubbing his back with soothing strokes. 

“Right. Compromises.”

* * *

“So,” his mother says, eyeing Draco with a haughty little smile. She spoons her plum tea methodically. “I see you have finally decided to do something about Harry Potter.”

Draco’s fingers seek out Harry’s, entwining them on the finely polished wooden table top for her to see. She raises her chin in silent approval.

Compromises can be a beautiful thing.

“So I have.”

* * *

Harry Potter is immensely annoying, like a bee buzzing around his ear that keeps coming back for the proverbial honey. He’s there, constantly drawing Draco’s attention from whatever he was previously focusing on to him and those bothersome dimples. He screws with his head, his focus, and worse of all, Draco lets him. 

He's in way too deep, because he now lets Harry Potter distract him in ways that would have been unimaginable before.

Like the fact that Harry’s fingers are always in his hair, so much so that Draco hardly even notices that they’re there until his braid is undone and his hair is flowing free around his face. He’s constantly undoing his tight braid, claiming that he likes his hair unbraided better and promising that if Draco gives it a chance, he would too. 

Draco’s trying to reason with Scorpius about why he can’t let his Muggle school friends come over to see Princess when he notices his hair beginning to fall loose in the middle of the school hallway. Harry’s there, grinning like a madman with a laughing Lily in his arms. Harry blinks innocently at him and claims that it was actually his seven year old child who unbraided his hair, not him.

He ties it back again later Saturday night when Harry’s showing Scorpius and Draco what something called a ‘Transformer’ was. They do this sometimes, whenever Albus or Scorpius wants to have a sleepover, nobody questions when Draco or Harry tags along for the night. It’s just commonplace, for Draco be curled up with Harry on the couch or for Harry to already have dinner prepared for the five of them. 

If the children care about their parents' sudden closeness, they don’t say so. Their kissing and Lily’s tattling must have erased any confusion surrounding their relationship. Scorpius especially couldn't care less as he watches the television screen with wide eyes and an opened mouth, looking at Optimus Prime in Lily’s lap and the Optimus Prime on the screen. Albus and Lily excitedly inform him of the dynamics of the television program Harry had put on. Enjoying his son’s wonder, Draco doesn’t notice until it’s too late that his very tightly done braid is a wavy mess around his face. 

He scowls at Harry. “Really Potter?”

A wry grin forms on his face as he shrugs, plastering on that faux look of innocence that would have annoyed him if it wasn’t so adorable. He leans back into the fuzzy grey couch, arms outreached on the bridge. “It makes you look softer.”

Softer? “Have you been smoking gillyweed or something?”

Harry furrows his brows. “Wait, you can _smoke_ that stuff?” Poor Harry. He has so much to learn about the joys of gillyweed. 

Knowing that there was no point in trying to tie it back again, he begrudgingly leaves it down, letting Harry run his fingers through the blonde strands as he pleases. Compromises; in a real relationship, there had to be some.

Though, when Draco catches his reflection in the mirror late that night, wearing his hair down no longer feels like a compromise.

Harry’s fingers had been buried deep in his hair while his cock had been buried deeper inside him. The loose locks of blond fall down his shoulders and Draco nearly jumps in surprise by the reflection of the man in the mirror. 

He looks _nothing_ like himself. 

He looks _exactly_ like himself. 

It’s such a simple shift in perspective, really. But it’s one that makes a world of a difference. His features lose some of the harsh definition that he’s been so accustomed to seeing and he looks impossibly young. Draco concedes that Harry may be right. Along with a multitude of other things that Draco refuses to admit defeat on. 

Bewilderment is shining in Harry’s eyes the next morning when Draco sits down for breakfast with unbraided hair. Scorpius, Albus, Lily, and Ginny sit with them more perplexed by Harry’s expression than by Draco’s hair. 

Luna comes later, bringing flowers, kisses, and light for Ginny with an extra long hug for Draco. Ginny seemed to pick up on her ex-husbands’ fascination with hair as well, constantly carding her fingers through Luna’s wavy blonde hair. Only, she’s extra careful not to muse up the bright sunflowers entangled in Luna’s luminous locks.

Who would have thought that Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood actually made sense together?

Harry’s gaze never leaves Draco, his eyes fixed on the sight of him walking around with his hair loose and without a single strand tied back. Draco can hardly focus on his tea with Harry’s fingers playing with the tips of his hair underneath the table in between cooking the food.

He does, however, still makes sure to read the daily horoscope. 

“Ha! Listen to this,” Draco smooths out the paper and clears his throat for the table to hear as Harry sets a plate of steaming breakfast food in front of him. “ _‘Leo: Your foresight has paid off, you will achieve what you once thought was impossible. Consistency is key for continuous reciprocity,”_ he waggles his eyebrows in Harry’s directions. Harry snorts, knowing that Draco was referring to his promise of blowjobs. He continues, frowning slightly as he reads, _“However, your success is not tangential to other’s growth. Be mindful of your loved ones who are on a similar journey as you. Show grace in the face of conflict and misunderstandings.”_

He sits the paper down, feeling oddly put off by the subtly ominous reading. He shakes his head and flicks the paper away with a snort. “Whatever, it’s just a stupid reading. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Is it Muggle?” Luna asks.

Draco nods not seeing how that has anything to with the message. 

She hums, closing her eyes in understanding. “Muggle horoscopes are famed for their accuracy and predictability. There are theories that magic can actually convolute a horoscope’s assessment. Haven’t you heard of the Westforth Theory, Draco?”

He’s heard of it. Grans Westforth would probably hex Draco to pieces for his war crimes. Probably not hex. No, he would just shoot Draco on sight with one of those Muggle guns. He probably detested his own magic and the wizarding world more than those sodding relatives of Harry’s. His entire theories involved disproving magical ones and uplifting Muggle science. An incredible researcher in the astrology field but batshite crazy if you ask Draco.

The newspaper dangles from his fingers. “I doubt his theory applies to a horoscope in the—” he looks at the cover sporting a busty blonde and one of those Muggle Princes that was always in the news for something, “ _The Daily Sun?_ ”

Besides, even if there was any validity to the horoscope didn’t matter much. Harry Potter was extremely annoying, but he was simultaneously the most compassionate person Draco knew. So showing grace won’t be an issue for him, regardless of the situation.

He’s Harry Potter. Surely, that alone means more than some well-crafted lie in a newspaper. He shakes his head, resolving himself to forget all about it and flips to page six to find out what else that crazy partying Prince has gotten himself into now.

* * *

“Raise your hand if you believe that Draco Malfoy is crazy.”

Every hand raises, except for Luna’s, who says that technically, everyone's a _little_ crazy.

“I’m just confused,” Ginny admits, nibbling at her pink bottom lip. “What exactly does this thing do again?”

This would be the millionth fucking time he’s had to explain it. “It’s an amulet. To protect you from negative spirits for tomorrow’s Supermoon. It’s a proven fact that the first Supermoon of the year is a powerful conductor of negativity. You all should be grateful, everyone in this room I care about enough to brew and give one of these to. Pansy, Blaise, and my mother already have theirs from previous years. And yes, they all will be wearing it, as will you all.” Even little Marcéline has one, wrapped around her chubby ankle.

Scorpius whispers loudly to Ginny, “It’s like this every year. Just go with it.”

“I heard that!” Draco folds his arms over his chest. He may have to protect himself from his own son tomorrow. He, Harry, and Albus ought to learn to be grateful for his sense. Never mind the amulet, but Draco makes sure every morning to give them each reminders of the astronomical occurrences happening that day, just so they’re all well prepared. Only Lily seems to appreciate his efforts. She was currently squealing over how pretty the condensed brew is. The amulet looks much like a glittering pink crystal when finished and Draco knew that out of everyone, she would find the beauty in it. 

“Oh Draco, you actually don’t have to give me one,” Luna says, lowering her collar to show her own pink, glowing amulet. “I have one of my own.”

Draco grins at her. Harry and Ginny were blessed to have such knowledgeable partners. 

Ginny gawks at it. “So _that’s_ what that thing is? Huh. Let me get a closer look…” The only thing she looks closer at is Luna’s breasts rising and falling beneath the amulet. “So pretty,” she purrs. Gryffindors. 

His Floo roars to life, and the owners of the last two amulets he hastily brewed the previous week arrive in his living room, looking as dazed as they did in the Red Lion.

“Ron? Hermione?” Harry stands up, bewildered by the sight of his friends in Draco’s home. “What are you two doing here?”

Ron shakes a bit of Floo dust onto Draco’s expensive flooring. “Beats me mate.”

Hermione purses her lips at him. “We’re here because Draco said that he had something to give us.” She scratches the back of her head, “Erm, something about spirits, I think.”

He holds up the two necklaces he crafted for them. “It’s this.”

Draco tosses them their amulets carelessly in the air, trying not to give too much thought about it when Harry grins widely at the sight. Ugh, this does _not_ mean he likes them. He still doesn’t even like Gryffindors. Not really. Truth be told, he merely tolerates Harry and Draco simply has a desire not to see any of his smarmy little friends get their feelings hurt. Harry Potter wasn’t the only soul with an unfortunate savior complex. 

“And this is…?” Ron questions suspiciously.

Must he spell out everything? “It’s an amulet Weasley. To protect you from any negative spirits tomorrow.” The information does nothing to erase the confused look on his face. “It’s a Supermoon tomorrow? March 9th? The Worm Moon?” He shrugs bashfully. Draco groans. Fucking Gryffindors. “Just wear it and don’t take it off until the following day.”

Though he was far more comfortable being around the two than he was at The Red Lion, it seems that the deep-seated suspicion is still rooted there. Understandable, but bloody frustrating all the same.

“You should listen to him, when brewed properly this amulet is actually powerful enough to ward off a single dementor,” Luna says knowledgeably, fingering her own amulet as Ginny continues to drool at her exposed cleavage. “Not as powerful as a Patronus of course, but still useful.”

Hermione inspects her amulet with a closer eye, the pink rock gleaming in the morning sunlight. “What’s it made out of?”

He ticks off the ingredients on his hand, “Chopped rabbits' foot, unicorn hair, Ashwinder eggs—”

“ _Ashwinder_ _eggs?_ ” Hermione’s eyes light up and he can practically see her browsing through her mental library for the uses of the eggs. “Goodness, that stuff is rare to get, how did you manage to have enough to make so many?”

Draco waves her off. “I ordered it from France months ago.”

He doesn’t go into the painstaking details about how difficult it was to get the supplies to London instead of Paris, or how long it took to brew, or how this previous week he was staying up late at night to make theirs at the last minute. He doesn’t, because he’s not a narcissist or a fucking Hufflepuff. 

Ron places his necklace on, his face morphing into pleasure when the hanging amulet glows pink. “Is it normal for it to make you feel good like this?” 

“Very normal, in fact.”

Curious, Hermione tentatively places hers on as well, her face breaking out into the same, content pleasure as her husband’s. “This is...very thoughtful of you Draco. Thank you.”

He sneers, “It’s not that big of a deal Granger.” She cocks her head, smiling. “Weasley,” he tries again, spitting it out with as much vitriol as he can manage. The grin widens and she places her hands on her hips. He sighs. Bloody hell. “Hermione,” he grits out through clenched teeth.

“There you go.” For a terrifying moment, he thinks she’s going to cock everything up and hug him, but she seems to think better of it and squeezes his arm affectionately. He can tolerate arm squeezes. 

For Harry, unfortunately, a simple arm squeeze just won’t do. 

“Potter!” He tries to pull away from the tight hug Harry sweeps him into but he holds fast. Fuck, he’s strong. He’ll have to make a rule about no physical displays of affection in front of Weasleys.

He’s grinning so widely that his face just may split open from his joy. “ _You care,_ ” he whispers in his ear as Ron and Hermione chat with Ginny and Scorpius.

“I care about a lot of things, you’ll have to be more specific.”

“You care about my friends. In your own, eccentric, snarky-arsed way.” He pokes his cheek and Draco growls threateningly. He had one more time doing that before he hexed all of that pretty hair off. “Admit it.”

“Fuck off.”

“It’s one of your weird little quirks. It’s cute, really.” Draco narrows his eyes into dangerous slits. Soft. Cute. Harry should be lucky he isn’t dead by now. 

“No weirder than you and your kink for people singing.”

He yanks at his shirt collar, dragging his face down to his. “I don’t have a kink for people singing. I have a kink for _your_ singing.”

Draco feels his face burn. Another thing Harry will be forbidden from doing: saying unexpectedly sweet things about him in front of Weasels.

Albus groans loudly. “Do we have to wear this? It’s pink!” He slumps down in his chair. “I _hate_ pink.”

“ _Yes,_ ” Harry says firmly, over Lily’s scolding reminder that Optimus Prime was pink. “We will all be wearing it tomorrow. Isn’t that right Draco?”

Draco places Harry’s necklace on for him, adjusting the crystallized amulet so that it sits at the center of his chest. It glows bright pink when it touches his skin and Draco places a discreet kiss on it because an extra bit of protection never hurt anybody.

“Right.”

* * *

Another rejection. 

It shouldn’t hurt anymore, it _doesn’t_ hurt anymore, but Merlin, is there a limit? Nothing he presents to the board is enough for them. He’s working on his twenty-ninth time of being rejected and it’s starting to eat at him. 

What if it hasn't been his Dark Mark that’s been holding him back all this time? What if it’s him? What if he’s just simply not good enough, not smart enough, not enough to have his research taken seriously?

What if Astoria was right, and he was just a superstitious man with a love for the stars?

He trudges into the school with heavy feet and with an even heavier heart. He’s grown thickened skin over the months, but every so often, one of their rejections manages to cut him a bit deeper than he can handle. Even a dragon can be burned from fire.

A hand grabs him and he’s tugged into Harry’s empty yellow classroom. 

“Potter!” Draco wrestles his hand off of him. “How many times do I have to tell you not to do that? I’m not having sex in my son’s school again.”

Harry laughs, quickly kissing his knuckles as compensation. “Sorry, I just got excited. I have something to show you.” Draco’s eyes widen and he takes a step back, preparing to defend his already soiled virtue if necessary. “No! Not that! Merlin, get your head out of the gutter.”

“Not my fault you’re a sexual deviant.” Draco fixes his clothes back into their proper position. He’s always having to do that around him. “And I think I’m a bit too old for surprises.”

Harry rolls his eyes as he goes behind his desk. “Pfft. We’re the same age. _Nothing_ about me is old,” he counters with a puffed up chest. “But I think you’re going to like this one.”

Draco shuffles behind him, his arms folded in an unimpressed line across his chest. “This better be—”

A bouquet of gorgeous light pink flowers is placed under his nose with a bright smile to accompany it.

“For you.” 

Draco looks at the bouquet of flowers. At Harry’s dimpled face. Then at the flowers again.

“For me?”

“For you.”

Draco gingerly takes the flowers with unsteady fingers. They were beautiful—a bushel of cherry blossoms blooming in the palms of his hands. The vivid pink hue is an unexpected drop of color in his grey day.

“What says the first day of spring more than a bouquet of cherry blossoms, eh?” Harry waggles his eyebrows in that ridiculous manner he always does when he finds something particularly witty. 

Draco’s breath hitches. With all of the disappointment from today, he had forgotten that it was the first day of spring. His favorite season. How Harry knows this or had known to get his favorite flowers is a mystery his brain can’t work out. His breath audibly catches in his throat once more.

Harry’s face falls in concern. “Draco?” His breath hitches again. He swallows, shifting nervously on his feet. “I’m sorry, was this stupid? It was probably stupid. Both Ginny and Hermione said that I should try work on romance because apparently I’m terrible at it and I saw how you looked when Luna brought Ginny flowers and I just thought that maybe…”

Draco shakes his head, looking at the cherry blossoms in his hands. The first tear that falls down his cheek is a complete accident—a result of some sort of cosmic occurrence, he’s sure of it. The second falls and he reasons that he probably just has allergies. But then third comes and he concedes that maybe he wasn’t as terrifying as he likes to pretend he was. 

He wipes his face with the wrist of his jumper sleeve. “No one’s ever brought me flowers before.”

The fourth and fifth tears fall down and soon he’s losing count because it's the first day of spring and Harry Potter’s just brought him flowers completely unprompted simply because he can and because he _wanted to_.

He thinks he has the right to cry.

“Oh Draco.” Harry’s thumb brushes away what must be the tenth tear and he kisses the eleventh away with his lips. “So what I’m hearing is more flowers then?” Draco nods and he kisses his temple with wet lips. “I think I can do that.”

As always, Harry’s cologne is nice, and he settles for burying his nose in the crook of his neck, smelling the woods and the perfumed scent of cherry blossoms. Harry strokes his hair and it’s the most relaxed he’s felt all day.

“I got rejected again,” he admits. His tears fall down Harry’s neck and stain the white button-up he was wearing. “What am I doing wrong?”

Harry pulls away from him, gripping him by the shoulders. “Nothing. Don’t blame yourself for others' misconceptions about you. I’ve seen your work Draco—you’re brilliant.”

He takes this, swallows his pride, and accepts his compliment no matter how biased it may be. “A little bit of validation that I am wouldn’t hurt though.”

Because that’s really all he wants, isn’t it? Someone to tell him that he’s not crazy, that his work is good, that _he_ is good. 

He looks at the flowers in his hand. Perhaps he has that already.

Ana is locking up her classroom for the day when they exit the room, hand in hand. Her smile is wider than usual, and she’s eyeing the bouquet, looking almost as if someone’s gifted her the cherry blossoms. She wiggles her fingers at them, keys jingling. “Have a good afternoon you two.” A sly wink is sent Harry’s way. 

Harry scratches the back of his head nervously and clears his throat. “I can shrink them if you don’t want everyone to see—”

Draco clutches the bouquet to his chest. “No! They’re mine!” They’re his and he wants everyone to know it. He grips them tighter, smiling at the blossoms. _His_ blossoms. 

When he returns home this evening, he’ll burn the rejection letter in his pocket, along with the other twenty-eight buried in his desk drawer. Their absence is needed, in order to room the twenty-eight roses Harry gifts him the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized in the middle of writing this that I had named Pansy and Blaise's daughter after the vampire queen on Adventure Time but with a fancy accent. Idk man, I just really like cartoons. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are loved and appreciated :)


	8. Saturn's Rings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I received so much love these last two days, I love all of y'all so much <3

Draco never quite understood the point of Easter break for Hogwarts. Hardly any witches or wizards were religious, except for a handful of Muggleborns and Blaise, who was Jewish. As he grew older at Hogwarts, Draco hated Easter Break. Any holiday that required him to go back home and see his father was entirely unwanted. 

It wasn’t so awful once his father was sentenced, but still just as pointless. He didn’t think he knew anyone in the magical community who actually celebrated the holiday. That is until Albus brought up the annual Easter dinner at the Weasley’s on the walk back from school. 

“And Grandma makes a massive fruit cake!” Albus explains excitedly as they walk to the closest Apparition point near the school. “And Uncle Ron beats everyone in chess!” He puffs out his chest, “Except for me of course.”

“Of course,” Draco echoes, smiling. He doesn’t quite know where he fits into this. Meeting with Ron and Hermione was one thing, but meeting the entire Weasley clan during a clearly sacred holiday? No thanks. 

Baby steps. He would suggest meeting one Weasley at a time, but he may reach 50 before they’re done.

Albus continues chattering at rapid speed, with Harry having to remind him every so often to take a breath. “And you’ll finally get to meet my Uncle Charlie, Scorp! He lives with dragons.”

Clearing his throat, Draco looks at Harry from the corner of his eye, “Excuse me? Meet?” A group of schoolchildren breezes past them on bicycles, laughing with crinkled eyes. “Harry?”

Harry winces. “Well obviously you and Scorpius are invited,” he says. It wasn’t that obvious if this is the first time he’s hearing about it. From Albus nonetheless. “Please Draco, it would mean a lot and everyone already knows we’re—”

“Okay.” He takes a deep breath. Blowjobs. He deserves lots and lots of blowjobs.

Harry raises a brow, looking as if he’s not quite sure he’s heard him right. “Okay?” 

Sometimes, Draco strives for simplicity too.

“Yes Harry. Maybe now Scorpius can finally meet that mysterious oldest son of yours. He’s dying to ask him about Hogwarts.” He looks at Scorpius who is currently gawking at a fat caterpillar on the sidewalk. “He says I’m too old to tell him about how Hogwarts is now.” He rolls his eyes. Scorpius could be such a berk.

“Ahh,” Harry scratches his beard with twitchy fingers. “There’s something you should know about James…”

“He hates Dad!” Albus exclaims, bringing the large caterpillar up to them and holding it to their faces. Draco shrinks away behind Harry, disgusted by the green, squirming thing writhing in the palm of his hand.

“Oh please,” he says once he’s moved a safe distance from the insect. “I’m sure he doesn’t hate your father.” 

Harry purses his lips in contradiction. “You haven’t met him. Ever since the divorce he has _detested_ me.”

Like he hasn’t heard that one before. Blaise was convinced that Marcéline hated his guts just because he can’t make her laugh. He waves him off. “All kids hate their parents for something and all parents hate something about their kids. Take Scorpius and I for example,” Draco says, stopping them and dragging Scorpius away from the caterpillar and closer to him. He pats him on the head lovingly. “Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy is possibly the biggest smartarse I have ever met and he is only ten years old; definitely a 0 out of 10 rating.”

Scorpius cackles, pushing up his glasses with his finger. “And my dad is the worst cook in the world. He couldn’t make a glass of water without needing the help of a house-elf. He’s what my Uncle Blaise calls, and I quote, _‘a hopeless gay disaster.’_ ”

Harry shakes his head, amusement shimmering at the surface. “You two clearly don’t hate each other; you’re both just weird.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Watch, when James comes home, you’ll see what I mean. I’m considering having Ginny take his wand from him in case he wants to use me as a practice target for an Unforgivable.”

Draco loops his arm in Harry’s, snickering in his ear. “You’re such a drama queen.” 

Harry Potter: Savior of the Wizarding World, Vanquisher of the Dark Lord, Fantastic Cockersucker, and Most Definitely _Not_ an Auror, is a bloody drama queen. His 13 year old self was right all along.

Harry grabs a fistful of Draco’s loose hair, inspecting with a close eye. “Oh my gosh, is that a caterpillar in your hair?!”

He yelps, his hands immediately flying to the ends of his hair to shake out the phantom caterpillar. He stops once he notices everyone laughing at him, Harry’s being the loudest voice amidst the noisy London atmosphere. “Oh sod off.”

Rolling his eyes, he roughly loops his arm back into Harry’s. Blowjobs. Lots of fucking blowjobs. 

* * *

“Places people, places!” 

Albus is running around, trying to make sure everyone is in the correct position to greet his oldest brother. Or whatever he deems the correct position at that moment. Draco’s been moved five times in the last ten minutes and has been told by a very stern ten year old to stop scowling more than once.

“Your kids’ a nutter Potter,” Draco mutters into Harry’s ear. 

Harry snorts, pointing to Scorpius, who was currently telling Princess and Optimus Prime to be on their absolute _best_ behavior once James arrives. “No more than your kid.” Draco groans. He may have him beat.

“Dad stop slouching! Mr. Malfoy stop grouching! Scorpius, sit on the couch! My brother is coming to the house!” 

Draco winces as Albus continues to sing. He’s just as bad as his father. Bless his heart. 

“He’s here!” Albus shouts just as the Floo roars to life. 

Ginny comes out first, shaking bits of Floo dust out of her clothes and hair. Followed by her is a carbon copy of a 13 year old Harry so identical, Draco has to blink several times just to make sure he wasn’t going mad. 

“James,” Ginny says to the scowling boy, “this is your father’s boyfriend Mr. Malfoy and his son, Scorpius. They are very excited to meet you.” There’s a strange glint in her eye and the infliction of her tone goes up one octave as she speaks to James. Draco has a feeling that if this goes sour, Ginny Weasley may awaken the pits of Hell with her fury.

Yet James is far from frightened from her faux politeness. He hardly looks at Draco or Scorpius. No, his gaze is focused solely on Harry.

He hears Harry swallow loudly in his ear. Draco lightly taps his foot in encouragement. With a deep breath Harry moves with open arms to engulf his son in a hug. “James, hey, how are you? How was school? Did you learn anything interesting—”

James sidesteps him and heads upstairs to his room, outright ignoring Harry in a way that Draco was never able to master with Jaspers. Draco winces. So maybe he might see what Harry means. But that doesn’t mean he hates him. No, it was just a rebellious teen phase; they’ve all had one of those, and Draco was no stranger to disliking his father. At least Harry hadn’t groomed him to be a blood supremacist and auctioned him off to do the dirty work for a deranged dark wizard. 

Harry’s arms fall loudly against his flanks, his face darkening in disappointment. Albus puts a hand on his father’s wrist. “Hey, at least he didn’t hex you, right?”

Ginny’s face is redder than her house color. “I’ll talk to him.” 

A hand grabs her by the elbow. “No,” Harry says. “No, just give him some time. This is…different for him.”

“So what, we’re just going to let him sit by and blatantly disrespect you like that?” She shakes her head, red hair flying. “No way. I will _not_ raise—”

“Ginny,” Harry interjects. “Time. That’s all he needs. Time and space.”

After several moments of chewing the inside of her cheek and huffing, she finally gives in. “Fine. But if this behavior continues into the Sunday dinner, best believe me and that young man will have a long talk.” She turns, her eyes focusing on something at the side of the couch. “Oh and Harry?”

With sagged shoulders he says, “Yes?”

She points to the same spot her eyes were focused on. “Tell those two to get a room,” she says right before Floos herself out of the house.

Draco turns and sees a sight worthy of a strong Obliviation. Princess, _mounting_ Optimus Prime, their long tongues flicking every which way in the air. He clutches his chest. He thinks he’s going to be sick.

His son gasps while Albus laughs himself to bits. “No Princess, no!” Scorpius pulls the purple pygmy puff off of the back of Optimus Prime, though it takes quite a bit of effort to disentangle their connected tongues and connected… _other things_. 

Harry slumps down into the couch, crestfallen. “My life is a joke.” 

Draco tsks softly, rubbing his cheek with the curve of his thumb soothingly. Albus is still beside himself with laughter and Scorpius looks as though he may fall ill soon. “At least it’s a funny one, right?”

Harry only groans louder.

* * *

He sits atop of the counter, paper in hand as the Prophet’s headline glares up at him. The main story? _Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy’s Salacious Love Affair!_

Underneath a tiny headline about an attempted break in at Gringotts, the paper encourages readers in bold print to turn to page five for more details on their private relationship.

Next to him, the bowl of eggs Harry was whisking stops stirring.

“I don’t care… do you?”

He doesn’t think he’s cared what the Prophet has published since he left for Paris. This was embarrassing, yes, but he’ll live.

“No.” He fingers the worn, thin edges of the paper. Their faces stare back at them, anxious and still outside of The Red Lion. Not even Muggle places were safe it seems. “No, but I think your son might. He doesn’t seem too enthused by our relationship as it is, I doubt any public attention isn’t helping.”

Harry hums, his mouth tightening and a little wrinkle forming in between the space of his brows. A memory clouds his mind and he blinks several times to clear it. He looked like Astoria. 

“So,” he says, drumming his fingers on the gradient countertop. “Are we going to have a healthy, adult conversation about why your son supposedly hates you?”

Harry scrambles the eggs a bit too fast, yellow liquid sloshing out of the side of the pan and sizzling as it hits the stove. “Did we not already?”

“No, that was you only telling me that he hates you. You never got into the why.”

“What if they’re not a why?”

“There’s always a why.”

He hums again, ignoring him as he checks the tea for the fifth time. Draco narrows his eyes. It’s been too long since Harry’s remembered that they used to be enemies for a reason. If he wasn’t so head over heels for this stupid Gryffindor, he would have hexed him in half. He does not do well being ignored.

“In the spirit of saying it like it is, I must point out that it is seven in the morning and while you should be sleeping or better yet, spending time with James, you’re here, cooking me breakfast.” He looks at the sizzling sausages frying on a pan. “And you know I hate sausages.”

It’s a bit funny how people work sometimes. When Draco gets frustrated he reaches for a pint or baggie stuffed at the bottom of his desk. For his wand to turn his anger into a physical manifestation of the fire in his chest. 

When Harry gets frustrated, he cooks. A lot. 

He cocks his head when Harry doesn’t respond. “So answer me. What are you avoiding?”

Harry taps the whisk against the side of a pan. “What makes you think I’m avoiding something?” Not even he believes his own words, his hand losing some of their smooth easiness as he whisks another bowl of eggs and turns erratic with each flick of his wrist. 

“Because I can see it. You’ve never been very subtle Harry.”

Harry sets the bowl down with clang and rolls his neck. The bones pop from stiffness and Draco winces. “Fine. You want the truth? I am avoiding James. For good reason too. Sometimes I feel like he’s just waiting to explode, you know? With Al and Lily, I can tell what they're thinking without them even having to say it. James on the other hand…” 

He leans over the stove, his hands gripping the counter. “I don’t know what to do with him at times. I know why he’s so mad, but I can’t change the past.” He goes to run his hands through his hand but Draco stops him, clutches onto both. His hair looked nice today. “I made mistakes, I won’t deny that.”

“Like?”

“I’m not Astoria. I just think that should be made clear beforehand.” His knuckles turn a light shade of brown as he grips his hands. “I wasn’t the most attentive husband to Ginny. You see how Luna is with her—constantly bringing her things, holding her hand, listening to her. I didn’t do any of that. I was too busy…” His face sours. “Do I have to talk about this?”

Draco shrugs. “You don’t _have_ to do anything. But I’ll hope that you’ll try to be honest.”

“Honest. Right. I guess if we’re being honest I have to admit that I wasn’t as truthful with you as I could have been before.” He lowers his eyes. “Being honest is actually hell.” 

Draco’s heart lurches but he puts on a brave face. He loops his pinky finger with Harry’s. Whatever it was, they could work through it. Because, compromises. 

“I’ve only been a teacher for about five years. Before that I was still trying to be an Auror. I don’t know why, but I was frankly…pretty obsessed. The war made me think that it was my job to save everyone. My head wasn’t in the right place then.” He snorts solemnly, “Clearly, or I would have been an Auror right now.” 

Draco doesn’t quite see why this would lead James to hate Harry but he lets him speak, knowing that it was important sometimes just to let the truth out.

“It got in the way of a lot of things. My own wife could hardly sleep in the same room with me at night because of my nightmares. I didn’t want to spend time with anyone, even my children, I just wanted to try to atone for everyone that died in the war because I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Ginny told me to go see a Mind Healer or sign the divorce papers. Merlin, there were so many times we had nearly gotten divorced, I’m still surprised we made it as long as we did. James saw the worst of it.” His face crumples as he admits this, souring in a dull, sorrowful expression.

“I guess he internalized that… and the fact that I avoided them. I never really knew how he was feeling until Ginny and I separated. Since then he’s… well you know. He has a tendency not to say what he’s feeling. It’s my fault, I know it’s my fault.”

His mouth thins into a small, tight line and Draco chews at the inside of his bottom lip, nervous if what he was about to suggest was allowed. “Why don’t you try explaining your P—”

“No, I can’t.”

Draco purses his lips. “I wasn’t finished.”

“I know. Still no. James doesn’t need to know that, besides, it’s behind me now and it’ll just end up sounding like an excuse. It _is_ an excuse.” Harry sounded exhausted and he looked half-dead. He must not be sleeping well. “I’m sorry, to you also.”

“For reasonably keeping something this hard to explain to yourself instead of sharing it with me on our first date?” He snorts, “Yeah, apology accepted.” 

Harry shakes his head, his mouth not moving an inch at his joke. “No, for just assuming that you would come to dinner without properly asking you. After Ron and Hermione…” They both wince, but Draco squares his shoulders and tries to disregard it, “It’s not right for me to just throw you in situations where you feel uncomfortable. You don’t have to go. I’ll understand.”

“Oh Harry,” He rubs Harry’s cheek with his thumb, feeling the curve where his dimple would have appeared if he had been smiling. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m going to march into the Nest—” 

“ _Burrow_.”

“—And be a sweeter than a treacle tart to every goddamn Weasel that scurries through those doors on Sunday.”

“You can’t call them Weasels there, you know that right?”

“Moles?”

Harry fixes him with a stern look, though he can see that he was trying very hard not to laugh. “Fine, fine. Here, give that to me,” he holds his hand out for the whisk. “I’ll finish cooking. You go and sit your fit arse somewhere and relax, I’ve got this.” Draco doesn’t know much about PTSD, but if there was one thing he did know, it was that Harry did not need to be overworking himself any further than he already is.

“You can’t cook,” he points out, clutching onto his whisk a bit tighter than necessary. Harry had eaten his spaghetti on those rare times Draco attempted to impress him with his limited culinary skills, and it was suffice to say that Draco was clearly not the cook in this relationship. He still hasn’t forgotten how Harry tried to spit the noodles in a napkin when he thought he wasn’t looking. 

Draco rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Not true. Don’t listen to Scorpius, I can make a mean pitcher of water.” Merlin. He knows he’s probably going to burn these damn eggs.

Yet Harry laughs and Draco feels the subtle dent in his cheek under the pad of his thumb. There it was.

* * *

The Nest— _Burrow—_ is nothing like the Manor. There’s history here, though not in the same pretentious fashion as the Manor’s portraits glaring down from the walls and the fancy antiques that mean virtually nothing when there are a hundred more just as valuable items in a single room. No, this history is different. Draco can see it in the walls, the chipped paint on the house, the tree trunk littered with tic marks and corresponding names engraved in the bark. He can taste April in the air, intertwined with the sweet Chamomile flowers planted neatly along the sides of the home.

Stray white fluff from the swaying dandelions tickles his nose as they walk to the front door, his hand gripping tightly onto Harry’s. A bit too tightly, because his pulse was becoming erratic under Draco’s bruising grip. 

He doesn’t pull away. 

After a few knocks, the door yanks open and Molly Weasley’s eyes fall on him first. She welcomes them at the entrance in a bright, chirpy voice yet Draco feels his whole body instinctively go into fight or flight mode. 

She hates him, he can tell from the way she was scrutinizing him up and down like a stray crup with a bad case of mange. He hardly hears Harry introduce him to Molly as they step inside, her eyes penetrating his skin. Spatula in hand, she moves closer, her nose wrinkling disapprovingly.

Does she see Bellatrix in him? 

Does she see his father in his features?

Harry’s blood-filled thumb digs into the space between his knuckles. He’s just about to melt from his own fear when she pokes him sharply in the ribs with her spatula. 

“You’re too skinny,” she huffs, appalled. “I blame you Harry.” 

Harry’s laughter rings in his ear as he groans exasperatedly, clearly used to her jibing. Swallowing the mountainous lump in his throat, he croaks out a hoarse, “What?”

With a flick of her wand, a bag of fresh carrots and cutting knife fly into her hands. She shoves the blade-covered knife in Harry’s chest and the fat bag of carrots in his. “You two can do the carrots.” She points her finger to Draco’s face. “And _you,_ ” he gulps, “will eat nothing less than two plates. Understood?”

What was he supposed to say to that? “Yes ma’am.”

Her face suddenly widens and a grin the size of a troll breaks out onto her round face. She crouches down and squeals, “Oh and you must be Scorpius!”

Albus and Scorpius rush from behind them, each smiling as Molly fusses over them and pinches their cheeks. They lap up the attention like puppy dogs, especially Scorpius, who glows as Molly Weasley gloats over how much of a handsome young wizard he was while chiding Draco for not bringing him over sooner.

He doesn’t quite know how to explain that it was because he was terrified of being _Avada Kedavra-_ ed for daring to step into the home of a family who he helped persecute or because he was terrified of being blamed for her son’s death and another’s marred face. So instead, Draco politely excuses him and Harry to begin working on the carrots while she gushes over how adorably polite Scorpius is. 

He hates to admit it, but he can breathe a bit easier once he’s away from the Weasley matriarch. Regardless of her motherly spirit, she reminds him of things he had no right to forget but hated remembering.

The old floors squeak as he walks to the yellow kitchen and Draco softens his footfalls, careful not to make too much noise in a space that wasn’t meant for him. 

He’s stacking the carrots into three neat rows to cut on the worn dinner table when Harry whispers in his ear, “You okay?” Nodding, he gives him a tight-lipped smile. He can handle a stinging nose and racing heart for a few hours. He always has been. This was Harry’s family and he will need to get used to them for this to work. 

“Go, I’ll be fine here.”

It takes a bit more prodding and a lot more reassurance before he finally gets Harry to come off his self-imposed leash. This was good for him and Draco could sacrifice a bit of his comfort if that meant his happiness. 

Compromises, he reminds himself as he obsessively stacks and restacks the carrots. Compromises, though this doesn’t have to feel like one if he gives them a chance. Or if they give him a chance. Whichever one comes first.

However, the one thing he absolutely cannot compromise on in this relationship was cooking. He was currently at an embarrassing loss trying to figure out how to cut the carrots properly. Why couldn’t they just use magic? A simple slicing charm would suffice.

He tells Harry this when he makes his way back around to Draco his sixth time since he forced him to mingle with the others. One would think someone just stunned him at the question. “Molly Weasley does _not_ use magic when she cooks carrots. It’s either this way or no way.” 

Still not understanding what the difference was, Draco shakes his head, remembering that he doesn’t have room to question the peculiar ways of this family that graciously let him in for dinner. After several attempts he finally gets the hang of cutting, doing them slowly and precisely, not wanting to make any mistakes if carrot cutting was this big of a deal to Molly Weasley. 

He can’t afford any more mistakes. If evenly cut carrots is his way of making up for some of his sins, so be it. 

Unfortunately, cutting carrots is a little disgusting. His hands are covered in carrot residue and he can only take so much before he stands up to wash his hands of the odd feeling. Draco stares down at his slightly orange-tinted hands as he walks to the loo. Ew. This is why he hates cooking.

He comes face to face with Molly, one hand full of fresh greens and asparagus, and the other hoisted on her hip as she comes to enter the bright kitchen.

“Mrs. Weasley.”

Her dry lips pursed together. “ _Molly._ ” She fixes him with a withering look that could rival his own mother’s.

31 doesn’t feel that old when in the presence of her. He's nowhere near as grown as he pretends he is. “Molly.” He was suddenly very aware of this house, it’s history, his mistakes. He lets out a raggedy breath as he feels the weight of every bad thing he’s ever done closing in on him the longer he stares into her awaiting gaze. He wishes Harry was here but he has to do this on his own. “I want to tell you that… I’m so, so sorry. For everything I did, with the war, with your son—”

“Did you finish those carrots yet?”

He begins to shake his head like a guilty five year old before remembering to use his words. “No, ma’am.”

“You ought to be using this time cutting those carrots rather than trying to apologize for something you’re already forgiven for.” She smiles at him, far too reminiscent of his own mother. “Isn’t that right, Draco?”

She reaches past him for something on the counter and shoves a new bag of carrots in his chest, this one heavier than the last. It seems that her idea of forgiveness is shoving bags of vegetables at him. Or maybe this was her idea of revenge. He wasn’t sure. 

“It doesn’t look good on you to dwell on the past. You waste too much time doing that.” She pats the bag of vegetables in his arms. “Now go finish those carrots.”

He does, obediently cutting the vegetables with his disgusting orange hands and trying not to make eye contact with Molly Weasley.

His plan to stay away from anyone, especially Molly, was working splendidly. Everything at the Weasley’s was going far better than he expected. Lily shows him her pink nails her ‘Aunt Flew’ did for her, Charlie informs him and Harry all about the stubborn horntail that was refusing to mate with anyone in the sanctuary, and Arthur Weasley asks him if it’s true that Muggle children really do use something called a calculator to compute simple maths. 

Draco doesn’t know quite how to answer that question, frankly because he’s never heard of a calculator either, but he does indulge him in everything he knows about the mystical sound Muggles have discovered coming from Saturn's rings. 

He’s never seen a man look so starry-eyed in his life as Arthur whispers in pure awe, “ _Fascinating._ ”

Then Ginny, Luna, and James showed up, destroying the tranquil tolerance of the house. Both Ginny and James are wearing similar sour-faces as they entered from the Floo. The hand of Ginny’s that Luna isn’t holding twitches at her side, her thin fingers drumming against her thigh in barely contained anger. Draco wishes he had checked his wall this morning because he was about eighty percent sure that some astronomical event was arousing already existing intense emotions in everyone. Only Luna, who looked as centered as ever, seemed to be immune to it. 

Ginny and Luna make their rounds greeting everyone, with James sulking off to a corner far away from Harry and Draco. Ginny kisses Harry on the cheek, and Draco damn near cuts himself as he slices a carrot. 

That small spark of jealousy is quelled immediately when Ginny came and kissed _him_ on the cheek next. She doesn’t move away after she does, instead brushing her lips up against his earlobe and whispering, “I’m glad you came.” Her hair tickles his eyebrow as she pulls away. She then boldly challenges Ron to a game of wizards chess from across the room. 

The house was becoming increasingly crowded as more members filtered in. George Weasley with his pretty wife in one hand and a rowdy child in the other. Bill, who doesn’t greet Draco directly but nods in his and Harry’s direction. With all of his carrots cut, Draco doesn’t have anything to keep him occupied enough to ignore Teddy’s blue hair changing to a bright platinum blond. 

He channels Harry’s famous Gryffindor courage and asks Molly if he could peel the potatoes next.

People were at every corner. Hermione sits in a nook like him, braiding and unbraiding her antsy daughter’s thick, curly hair, scrunching her eyebrows whenever her eyes flit up towards the large hoard of Weasleys. He would think she would be more comfortable around the group, but like him, he could tell she was suffocating under the large swarm of red hair and loud voices.

He feels a sort of kinship to her. It was overwhelming being surrounded by a congregation of large personalities and fiery energies.

She nods to him in acknowledgment, watching him slowly peel potatoes so that he wouldn’t be obligated to join the pack of laughing extroverts. He nods back, watching her bury shaking fingers in her daughter’s hair. 

He keeps a careful eye on Scorpius, but as time drags on, it seems that he doesn’t really need to. From what he can see, Scorpius is a massive hit at the dinner. 

Regardless of age, everyone loves him, even though his bright hair and accent give him away as Draco’s son. They pinch his cheeks, play with him, indulge in his cute ten year old stories, praise him for his manners. 

Even Ron, who still wasn’t Draco’s biggest fan, is enamored with his son, teaching him chess moves with an easy patience Draco has never seen from him. 

Scorpius calls every adult ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’, remembers every one of his Charm School manners to a fault, and steals Molly’s heart when he asks if there’s anything he could help with. Draco couldn’t be prouder. He watches, trying to think of a good gift for him for being so beautifully well behaved.

Harry every so often gives him a thumbs up from in between an intense game of exploding snap with George’s son and Draco smiles back, peeling his potatoes and content with being alone as he does. This wasn’t so bad, as long as he stayed out of the way. Scorpius was doing good enough for the both of them. They could get through this yet if they both played their parts.

His vow of silence works like a charm when dinner starts, with everyone else but him contributing to the various conversations that range from dragon mating, to Quidditch house cups, to the wonders of red-headed mermaids in Muggle cinema. The one good thing about being around a large group of extroverts was that it was easy to fade into the shadows when needed. 

The only other person who is as quiet as he is was James. He sat next to Lily and Ginny, scowling when Harry had boldly sat next to Draco. One seat next to George remains empty and Draco wonders who else they were waiting for when Molly serves everyone their plates.

Clearly not anyone important, because everyone digs in once Molly finishes handing out the food.

Harry and the Weasleys entertain themselves at dinner, laughing over the enormous plate of food Molly made sure to stack on everyone’s plate. He may be hallucinating because he swore that his food portions were just a bit fuller than everyone else's. He doesn’t know if he can keep his promise to eat two plates when he can hardly get through one.

Scorpius is just telling Arthur about photosynthesis when Molly excitedly announces that the desert is done. Albus sits up straighter in his seat, squirming and licking his lips. 

“Here Mum, let me help you with that,” George stands up, passing out glasses of lemonade to everyone as she begins to cut the cooling fruit cake. Draco politely declines, nervous about the possibility of suffering through another dinner of a dry throat from the acidic lemons. He was already drinking too much water as it is. George raises a brow, a strange fit muttered laughter escaping his mouth when he gives the glass meant for him to Harry.

He won’t ask, because it's not something you should ask, but Draco has a sneaking suspicion that George Weasley isn’t quite _there_ all the time. 

Percy points approvingly to his sipped glass of lemonade, “This is excellent Mum. What did you add in it?” Harry sips his cup, his expression brightening at the taste. Even James’ stoic expression morphs in pleasure by the drink. Must be nice.

She looks up from slicing the fruit cake. “Oh, I didn’t make it, George did.” She pats George on the cheek as he hands her a glass, taking a sip to see what the fuss was about.

Several people immediately spit their lemonade back into their cups, horrified. 

“Bloody hell,” Charlie murmurs, wiping his tongue on his napkin. 

“Shite,” Ron agrees. 

Molly hisses something about language, moving over to swat him on the back of the head.

Ron sniffs, his nose wrinkled as he pulls away from Molly’s hand. “Ugh, Mum, I hate that new perfume you have on.” His hand flies to his mouth in shock. “I-I didn’t…” His face turns an unattractive shade of purple as he tries to retract his statement. 

“It is pretty bad,” Arthur agrees, his lips looking as though they moved on their own accord. He chokes when he realizes what he said.

Draco takes a sniff of Harry’s lemonade. Nothing smelled out of the ordinary, but then again, if George had spiked with Veritaserum, or something similar, there shouldn’t be anything unusual about the drink’s odor. He watches with careful eyes as Molly and Arthur throw blunt words at each other about each other's odor.

He and Hermione exchange a knowing look. From the way she was eyeing the lemonade, she too knew exactly what was happening.

“George,” she questions, her voice sounds like she’s speaking to someone who’ll break at a moment’s notice, “what did you do?”

Lifting his face from the pie he was shoveling in his mouth, George feigns innocence, his eyes too wide and his face too open to be believable. He looks around at the red freckled faces of his family members, his too long hair flying around his full cheeks. “What do you mean what did _I_ do? I only served drinks to everyone.”

“You spiked them with Veritaserum,” Hermione says. “What exactly were you planning on accomplishing by doing so?”

All eyes turn towards him and he sets his fork down, rolling his eyes playfully. “Fine. You’ve caught me. But in my defense, it’s only a low grade of Veritaserum and I’m only doing this because there seems to be some unresolved animosity in this family.”

“—George!” Ginny snarls. Draco feels himself begin to sweat nervously. Fuck, it’s him. He knows it’s him. He’s the bad thing, the reason for this supposed animosity. 

He’s also part of the reason why the seat next to George was empty. 

The shaking starts at the base of his spine this time, working its way to his hands last. The urge to vomit at the realization is so dreadfully intense, Draco nearly gives in and hunches over from fear.

George laughs, placing his arm around the arch of the empty chair, and leaning into it as if he were sharing an inside joke with the phantom body sitting there. Draco covers his mouth with a napkin. He wasn’t going to vomit. He was going to hyperventilate. “It will help grow us as a family,” he swears. “For example, Percy, what is your most embarrassing moment in school?”

Percy murmurs the reply in the inside of his shirt, but if Draco’s hearing served him correctly, he could have swore he said something about being caught wanking in the Prefect’s bathroom. 

“George!” His wife snarls. “Enough.”

He doesn’t listen. He’s not quite there. George laughs, seeming to rib something with his elbow in the empty seat next to him. 

Molly’s face darkens. He doesn’t think she has the heart to reprimand him. 

“James,” George says, “do you have anything you want to say to your father?”

James slumps in his seat. “N...Yes.” Scowling, he stabs at the roast on his plate. 

Draco raises his eyes. This was the first time he'd ever heard James speak. 

George smiles and for a moment, Draco sees double. Inhale, exhale. George’s hair is too long, it’s covering something that’s not there. 

“And that is?” His wife fumes next to him, exchanging cross looks with Hermione and Ginny. He turns to Harry, his face unusually serious. “I’m tired of seeing you two ignore each other as if the other doesn’t exist. This won’t end unless we stop hiding from each other. Fred and I never ignore each other even on our worst days…”

Draco stops listening, because he doesn’t think he can take it anymore.

“James and I do not—” Harry begins, literally choking on his words, unable to finish the lie he was about to say. George raises his hands as he proves his point. “This isn’t the appropriate time to do this.”

“It’s the only time, or else you two will continue shutting each other out. We’re a family, one little divorce doesn’t change that.” He murmurs, patting the chair arch, “Family doesn’t fade.”

“It does for me,” James snarls under his breath. Draco adverts his eyes. 

“Alright,” Ginny wipes her mouth with her napkin and throws it on her half-eaten plate, “Let’s take this upstairs you two.”

But Harry and James were too far drugged and tense to listen to her. “If we’re being honest,” James says leaning forward, “I haven’t felt a part of this family in months. Somehow, my feelings on the divorce don’t matter.”

“They do matter, but the fact that you insist on staying away from me doesn’t help anyone understand them. Maybe that would change if you would just talk to me.”

“ _Maybe_ I just don’t want to be around you just like you didn’t want to be around me.”

Red dots Ginny’s cheeks. “Harry! James! Upstairs!”

James’ fists clench and suddenly Draco is also thankful that he doesn’t have his wand on him. “You know I’m right. You never cared before the divorce either. All you did was isolate yourself from us. So what’s the issue now that I’m doing it to you? Now that _he_ comes along suddenly you care about my feelings?”

“Why are you placing the blame on Draco? If you have an issue with me, just say it.”

James turns his nose up. “I have an issue with both of you.” He huffs, “Of all people, why him? What makes him better than Mum?”

“Because I love Draco! Am I not allowed to love him?”

Draco looks up from his plate, shocked. Did he just say…?

Both he, James, and Molly look on the verge of crying, but for completely different reasons. “But you loved Mum too! I’ve seen it, you can’t actually believe that you will be happier with him than with her?”

Ginny sighs, negating her anger to reach out and card a hand through James’ hair. “Oh sweetie, I left your father. It was a mutual agreement. I can’t help that I love Luna more than he can help that he loves Draco.” He wrangles himself from out of her reach, his piercing glare still fixed on Harry from across the table.

“Stop saying that!” His upper lip curls and he looks at Draco, really looks at him, for the first time since he came through the Floo. He’s never noticed, but his eyes aren’t green like Harry’s; they’re hazel.

And full of loathing. 

“I hate you,” he hisses at Draco. About all of the adults at the table immediately rush to scold him, with Ginny and Molly in competition for the loudest. He glares at Luna too, though not finding it in his heart to declare his hatred for her. No one could ever say that they hate Luna Lovegood anyway, at least not under the influence of Veritaserum.

Poetic justice. On the day Harry admits his love for him, his son realizes his hatred for him. 

“So what,” Harry challenges, “You’re just going to hate him because he’s not your mother? Don’t you think that’s unfair?”

James tugs at the ends of his hair, looking so much like his father than Draco has to clear his vision several times to make sure he wasn’t seeing a very melodramatic 13 year old Harry Potter in front of him. “You’re not listening! You _never_ listen like I need you to!”

The real Harry Potter is red faced, his eyes watery as his son suddenly pushes away from the table, causing the dinnerware to clatter against each other. Draco wishes he could Disapparate at this very moment, but Harry looks so pitiful that it's all he can do to hold his hand. 

“I try to listen, but how can I when you keep pushing me away?”

James explodes. “I push you away because you love a war criminal over me!”

There’s a collective intake of breath, and after that, no one makes a sound. James’ footsteps and the slam of a door echo in the now silent house.

Ginny stands up. “Go,” she says, rubbing Harry on the back. “I’ll be upstairs in a moment.” Her face was exploding with color and he could tell that she was only several seconds away from unleashing her pent up fury. 

With some effort, Draco untangles his and Harry’s connected fingers. Draco gives him a sympathetic look. Harry doesn’t even spare a passing glance at him as he follows James upstairs, letting go of his hand with one quick shake in front of everyone.

His ego is bruised, but reason and parental experience remind him that this was not about him. 

Ginny’s mouth is in a tight ball as she says, “Luna, Draco, I’m so sorry. Please don’t think any of this is your fault.” They both begin to protest her apology but she cuts them off. “No, you two deserve an apology. Please believe me when I say that James will give you both a formal one once this mess is sorted out.”

He doesn’t quite know if he deserves an apology from a boy that was only telling the truth. He was a war criminal and in the spirit of saying it like it is, Draco’s fairly certain that he will never be more than that. At least, not when he was in England. Plus from the way James was fuming, he doubts he’ll ever get that formal apology. Luna should though. Her forearm is clean.

Ginny moves across the kitchen, ignoring the gasps of Molly and Hermione when she grabs George by the collar of his shirt, pulling his sitting body up to her height with terrifying strength. It’s easy to forget at times that she was a professional Quidditch player. “Next time you drug my kid, I’ll hex the skin off your arse.” He lets out several choked coughs as she pulls harder. “Got it?”

He nods his red face. 

She pushes him back down, ignoring his severed gasps for air and Molly’s fervent admonishing of her actions. 

Ginny growls, red hair flying, “He’s not the only one in this family that’s allowed to be crazy.”

She stomps upstairs, cursing.

From across the table, Draco and Scorpius share a pained look. Without Harry by his side, it had become unbearably noticeable how much they did not fit into this red-haired, freckled family.

Wide-eyed from the events that just unfolded and chewing nervously on one of the pointed ends of his fork, Albus whispers loudly to Molly, “Are we still gonna have that fruit cake?”

* * *

It’s dark when Harry Floos into his home that night. Scorpius went to bed immediately afterwards, too stuffed from Molly’s fruit cake and melodrama to want to do anything other than sleep. She pointedly gave him and Draco the biggest pieces, her eyes gazing sympathetically at them. He could hear the three going at it up in James’ room as they ate, Ginny’s brash voice breaking through the Silencing charm. 

Molly pulled him aside before they left, entwining her firm hand in his shaking one as she apologized for James’ words and for a man who can’t produce a Patronus anymore because all of his happiest memories are shared with an empty seat. 

Draco stays up past dark, restless, waiting for the inevitable moment when Harry comes back and tells him that it was a disaster, that James still hates him—hates the both of them.

His arms wrap around him the second he’s standing in front of his bedroom door. Harry buries his face in the crook of his neck without hesitation. He strokes his hair, feeling the coarse curls run through his fingers. “How did it go?”

A heavy sigh escapes Harry’s tired body. “He was angry. Then sad. Then angry again.” His arms wrap around Draco’s waist, and he can feel him smiling into his collarbone. “But I took your advice and told him about my PTSD. He told me that he _understands_. Can you believe it? He understands, Draco. He’s still angry of course, we have years of tension to work out, but it’s a start, isn’t it?”

Draco feels some of the nervousness in his body disappear. He had been so worried… “Oh,” he breathes, “Of course it is, love.”

Uh oh.

Draco pulls away. “Uh, sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

Unexpectedly, Harry laughs loud and deep in his ear. “Scared Malfoy?”

Draco scowls at the suggestion. “What? No!” Yet he’s backing up, falling onto the soft, pillow-stacked bed with Harry falling on top of him, pinning him down like a beautiful, victorious predator. Harry raises his brows, dimples gleaming under the warm yellow light and he has to swallow two times before he admits, “Maybe a little.”

He wasn’t the only one who could be terrifying. 

Hands trail up under his shirt, moving to the buckle of his belt, tugging at the waistband of his pants. “I’m the one under the influence. Don’t you think I should be the scared one?”

“You’re still drugged?” Merlin, how much of that stuff did George use? Low-grade or not, not even Harry, the most powerful wizard alive, could resist more than three drops.

“Very drugged,” Harry murmurs against the side of his neck, his hands slipping beneath his waistband and pulling down his trousers. He wastes no time to Vanish his own and _Accio-_ ing the nefarious lube container from the drawer. A wet finger, then two, then three, works him open with surprising speed. There’s no time for build up or foreplay. Harry was a man on a mission. “But not enough to do this—”

Draco shudders as he pushes into him. It’s been too long since they’ve done this. He feels bad for James—as much as he may hate him for being with Harry, Draco knows that he will never let this man go. A terrifying prospect, just like the man in between his legs.

“I have something I have to tell you.”

The headboard knocks as Harry thrusts into him. “And that is?”

“I love you.” 

“Oh yes,” A moan melts into a sigh, “I’ve gathered that.”

Harry shakes his head vigorously. “No, I _really_ love you.” His arms shake from exhaustion but his mouth still opens, the spiked drink still controlling his speech. He kisses every inch of skin he can reach. “I really love you; I love your hair, it’s so pretty and so long, Merlin why did you ever keep it short? Long hair makes you look so soft.”

Draco rolls his eyes. Soft was still possibly the worst adjective to describe him. Though ‘cute’ was a worthy competitor. “You’ve told me—”

“Yes I know I have,” he interrupts urgently. They both moan when Harry drives deeper into him. “And it’s true, as much as you don’t want to admit it.” He runs his hands down the smooth skin of his thighs, making him shiver in want. “You can be soft, Draco Malfoy, just like you are for me now.” 

Draco gasps, entwining Harry’s hand with his when he hits _right there._ He may be right. The most hated statements are usually embedded with truths, his mother says. He may never be as vulnerable or as empathetic or as brave as Harry deserves. 

But he can be soft. He can be that, for Harry.

“Though have I told you that I love your eyes too? And that little mole in the hollow of your collarbone? And how much you care about Scorpius?”

Harry’s words are like Princess licking his wrist—as much as he wants to pretend that he doesn’t love it, he simply can’t.

“Harry…”

“Circe, and your _voice—_ ” His own voice cracks as he moans loudly and Draco stills beneath him.

“Don’t come,” he commands, digging his fingers into Harry’s shoulders. So close. “Don’t.”

“Bloody fuck, I probably will,” he whines, his thrusts growing erratic. “God, I love the way you sing Draco. I think about it all of the time. You have such a beautiful voice—singing and talking. It used to get on my nerves, Merlin did it work my nerves in school. All posh and nasally and whiny—”

He pinches his taunt bicep. “Alright now,” he growls. “I fucking get it.”

“I mean, it was almost as bad as Madam Pince’s, you know? But _now_ , I would pay good money to listen to you sing. Why don’t you share your talent more? I nearly wanked myself raw the first time I heard you sing—goddamnit George!” Mortification spreads across his face as he tells a buried truth that the potion dug out of him. He closes them shut and grimaces.

“I’m rather enjoying this,” Draco snips, laughing at Harry’s groan of frustration. 

The redness on his face must be a combination of the sex, his embarrassment, and his anger at George. It was one of the five things on this earth Draco will admit was absolutely adorable. 

“I can’t… _fuck_ , Draco. You’re too good. Too… too…” A small trail of sweat glides down his exposed neckline, glistening under the soft yellow bedroom light. “You also have the prettiest arsehole in all of bloody England.” His eyes snap open when he realizes what he just said.

Placing his hand on the headboard above, Draco forced them to still, staring up at Harry with a wide, open mouth. “I— _what?!_ ” Oh this was too rich. “Those aren’t pretty!”

“Yours is.” His face collapses in another wave of pure embarrassment. “Please stop talking to me before I say something worse.” 

He doesn’t think anything can get worse than that, but he complies because he can feel his orgasm building in the base of his thighs and his mouth is more busy moaning than it is talking. He uses his last spare moment of lucidity to ask Harry to look him in the eye when he comes. He hardly even needs to, because like every time before, Harry does so instinctually.

There’s no time for talking, because several minutes later he’s coming down from his climax, his breathing erratic as he lays on Harry’s damp chest and stares up at the dark ceiling. 

“Well,” Harry breathed, his chest rising up and down as if it was being bewitched by the strength of a Full Moon, “this was certainly _not_ how I planned to tell you that I love you.”

“Agreed.”

A dark brow raises. “You actually never said it back.” The cheeky grin on his face disappears and he stutters out, “I-I mean, you don’t have to. I’m not making you. Erm, like I could make you do anything anyway, I mean you’re Draco fucking Malfoy you wouldn’t breathe if I told you to, obviously. So, uh, just ignore what I said it was stupid. Say whatever you want, because…yeah.”

Draco blinks up at him. “Are you done yet?”

“Yes.” 

He rubs at the red tinge forming on Harry’s cheeks, laughing. Draco cups the face of this silly, completely oblivious man. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the fact that he can still make Harry so nervous. Maybe he was intimidating. Or maybe it was the impact of realizing that you’ve fallen in love that was so frightening.

“I love you,” He kisses the top of his sweaty forehead. “And in case you need to hear it in a different language— _je t'aime ma bien-aimée._ ” 

Draco doesn’t miss the way Harry nearly salivates hearing him speak French. 

He may have not been drugged, but he had something he had to say as well. “I love your dimples. It should be illegal for you to have them.” He pushes Harry’s hair back. He sighs at the touch, long and hard on his face. “I love how you sing—you can’t, so I shouldn’t love it, but I do. I love how easy you are with children and your storytelling.”

“ _Draco_.”

But he doesn’t stop here. When a Malfoy has something to say, he says it. “I love that I can trust you with Scorpius. That you bring me flowers and let me pester you about predictions every morning. I love that you can't keep your hands out of my hair.”

He flips over, beginning to press small kisses onto Harry’s fluttering chest. Harry moans, arching his back up into his mouth. “Fuck, I don’t know if I can go again—you wore me out.”

Draco traces circles around his nipple with his forefinger, eliciting another moan from that too. “I love that you fall asleep after one orgasm too—you should be grateful, not many other people would love that about you.”

A pillow is smacked against his cheek. “Prat.”

His mouth leaves a deep, purple bruise on his skin. He sinks lower, purposely letting his words trail over Harry’s spent cock. “I love it, because all you’ve ever needed was one round to put me to sleep too.” 

Harry’s bleary, drugged eyes look down at him, a bashful smile on his lips. 

“There are so many things about you I love that I’ve lost count,” Draco admits, a welling in his chest that would have felt constricting had it not all been caused by Harry. 

He brings Harry’s hand to his clothed chest. Underneath, the skin tingles faintly, like all magical wounds do.

“Have I ever told you that I love these too?” He pulls up his shirt and reveals the long, pale cuts on his chest. The same ones Harry thinks he doesn’t notice how he looks away from. He’s doing it now, his face snapping away so that he doesn’t have to look at them. Draco has to cup his chin in his face to make him look. Not even his Dark Mark produces such a visceral reaction from him.

His voice is gruff with doubt when he asks, “How?”

“They’re yours—how can I not love them?” He places Harry’s hand on the longest one. It started at the bottom of his left rib cage and extended to the curve of his shoulder. Had there not been enough Dittany available, he would have scars on his face too. And over time he would have loved them, just as much as he loves the ones on his chest. If Harry just looks at them from a different angle, maybe he would understand why. “All of this,” he leads his fingers down the scar, “is yours. All of me is for you.”

“I hurt you.”

“But I’m okay now.” More than okay, actually. “You have to accept the reality.” He presses a kiss against his own scar, peeking out from underneath his fringe. “Besides, I thought we agreed that we loved the reality more than any fantasy?”

Harry takes this in, seeming to ponder the common truth they share as he bites his lip. “Does the reality involve you speaking French for me more often?” That goofy grin of his is unfathomably adorable. Bloody Gryffindors. He loves them.

Draco rolls his eyes and groans good-naturedly. “Ugh, sure Harry.” 

He pokes his cheek. “How about singing?” 

He’s slowly coming to accept that he’s never going to hear the end of that with him. “Well,” he drawls, curling up in Harry’s side, closing his eyes as the post-sex sleepiness inevitably pulled him in. “I would have to love you _very_ much for me to do that.”

“And do you?”

He smiles. “Yes.”

* * *

Harry digs his foot into the dusty ground, biting the inside of his cheek to avoid speaking. He was itching to do so, Draco could tell. Harry Potter could be blunt to a fault—hiding his feelings was never the greatest skill of his. There was only ten minutes left before the Hogwarts Express shipped James away for the rest of the term and Draco knew Harry was not one to let precious minutes slip by.

“James, I know this hasn’t been—”

“I’m sorry.” His face is pinched as if the effects of the Veritaserum are still coursing through his veins. James runs his hand through his hair much like Harry does, sighing all the way. Sensing a father-son moment about to occur, Draco slowly backs away, preparing to give them their space to talk. “Wait! Mr. Malfoy!”

Draco stops, a bit stunned that his presence was being requested.

With a heavy sigh he says, “I’m sorry to you too. I… I shouldn’t have said what I said about you.” Though he sounds ready to vomit slugs at his apology, Draco takes this as a win. 

“You don’t need to apologize James, I understand.” James hangs his head. “But thank you,” he adds. “I know this isn’t easy for you. And if it makes you feel any better, I’m sorry too.”

He really doesn’t know what he should be sorry for except for maybe secretly shagging his father, but Draco’s learned after ten years of parenting that children value apologies more than adults do at times. 

James holds out his fist to him. Draco stares at it, unable to decide what to do with his outstretched hand. 

He rolls his eyes. “It’s a fist bump Mr. Malfoy. It means we’re cool.”

Draco blinks in bewilderment, looking at Harry for support. He only shrugs. “Oh. Okay. So do I just uh…” He awkwardly bumps his fist against James’. “Boom,” he lets it explode once they bumped.

“Don’t do that.” 

“Right. Sorry.”

Harry snickers behind James’ back, a joke on his lips that’s cut off when James gives him a quick side hug. “Bye Dad.”

Draco thought Arthur Weasley’s starry-eyed gaze was unbeatable. Clearly he was wrong because Harry looks as if someone had gifted him the Sun when James wraps his arms around his waist for less than a second.

“I love you!” Harry says once James shakes him off. “Owl me if you need anything; you still have that invisibility cloak, right? I can get you a new broom if you want—”

“Dad.”

“Too much?”

“Far too much.”

This time Draco snickers. 13 year olds were ruthless. He can only imagine that Scorpius would be ten times worse with his quick-witted tongue.

Harry watches James as he drags his trunk onto the train, his smile never faltering. “Please tell me I’m not dreaming.”

Draco notices a scrap piece of paper sticking out of Harry’s coat pocket. Before it flies away, he gently takes it from his pocket, smoothing it out and smiling at the small message written on the crumpled note in scratchy handwriting. 

He hands the note to Harry. “I don’t think you’re dreaming.” 

He’s never seen a man glow brighter than Harry as he reads the words ‘ _I love you Dad’_ on the back of their Prophet article.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Je t'aime ma bien aimée' roughly translates to 'I love you my beloved' but correct me if I'm wrong. I can barely speak English on good days, much less French. Also, so sorry for the impromptu Pygmy Puff smut lmao. On a personal note, I have finally finished reading the Chamber of Secrets for the first time! 
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated and loved!


	9. Venus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Ewilan16 who very graciously corrected my screwed up French on the last chapter. 
> 
> TW: a bit of blood and homophobia in this chapter, but not much.

If there was nothing else that spoke to Draco's perpetual singleness, even when he had been married to Astoria, it was that he was very unused to sleeping in a bed with another person. For the entirety of his life, Draco had slept by himself, curled in his own blanket and dozing in a world of his own.

And it showed. 

The silvery streaks of dawn’s light had just begun to appear outside when Draco’s foot ruts up against a solid form. His legs were far too long and he needed a lot more room to be comfortable than most people. So whatever it was preventing him from stretching out was going to have to move. 

He kicks again, his muddled mind too hazy to recognize that he wasn’t kicking a _thing_ , but a _person_. 

He was so close to being comfortable, but if only he could stretch his leg out just one more inch…

The sound of a body falling to the floor and several loud curses jump him awake. He grabs his wand, ready to hex the blood out of whoever torn him from his slumber. 

“Who the fu—Harry?” Blinking several times, he looks down and sees an arm sprawled out on the floor and sucks his teeth. “Harry what the hell are you doing down there?” And he calls _him_ eccentric? He wasn’t the one who decided to take a kip on the floor. 

Harry mutters something into the carpet that he can’t quite make out. 

“What?” He hisses.

“I said you _kicked_ me.”

Draco curses, covering his mouth with his hand. “Sorry!” He sets down his wand and extends a hand to him. “Sorry, honestly.” 

Harry moans into the floor, waving his hand away. “I think I’m going to stay down here for now.” Wincing, Draco backs away in understanding. He really needed to get used to sleeping in a bed with another person. “At least you didn’t kick me in the crotch again.”

“I told you that was an accident,” he snaps. It hadn’t been one of his finer moments in the slightest, but Harry really did need to learn how to stay on _his_ side of the bed for both of their sakes—and crotches. “Here, I’ll go downstairs and get you some tea.” He looks at the small purple bruise forming on the back of his arm and tuts sympathetically. “And maybe some ice.”

He kisses the back of his dramatic boyfriend’s head on his way out, whispering a, _‘sorry love,’_ in his ear. 

The trace of a smile tugs at the corners of Harry’s buried face and Draco can’t help but replicate it even though he can’t see it. Love. The word had always been there on the tip of his tongue, straining to get out. There was something uniquely powerful about giving voice to the feeling. Even after he accidentally kicked the shite out of Harry. 

He twirls a lock of Harry’s curled hair in his finger. “Aww, does someone like it when I call him that?”

“Stop being a little shite this early in the morning and beat it.”

Draco snickers. He was so easy to fuck with.

Thankfully Scorpius is at his mother’s for the weekend, because he still doesn’t know how to explain why he and his teacher share the same bed when they can. Or why he was walking around wearing Harry’s too large shirt and pants.

He hums softly under his breath, something that he finds himself doing more with Harry around. His fingers trace over the various teas in the cabinet before landing on the Earl Grey he knows Harry prefers. The steam from the tea floats up into his nose, and he adds a touch of honey to thoroughly compensate for his sleep-kicking. He’s just turning to head back upstairs when a silvery cuckoo flutters into the kitchen. 

There's a sharp intake of breath that must have come from him because suddenly his chest is too tight to curse at his clumsiness, too constricted to even yelp when the glass from the dropped teacup cuts into his feet or from the scathing heat of the spilled tea on his skin.

Astoria.

“ _Dracooo_ ,” the bird says in Astoria’s airy accent. It hops down from the marble counter, fluttering down in a whirl of silvery mist. “ _Dracooo._ ” 

“As…” He claws at his chest. He can’t breathe.

The cuckoo sinks down to the ground with him, flying directly in his face as his breathing becomes imbalanced. One breath in lets two out, leaving him gasping for air. He scrambles away from it, bumping loudly into the bottom cabinets and pointing his wand at it as if that would somehow frighten the Patronus. “ _Draco, I want Scorpius back. I need him back._ ”

“Draco?!”

 _“You’re not being fair Draco. Don’t you think Scorpius needs his mother?_ ”

Harry’s there at the entrance of the kitchen, clinging onto the door frame as his tired eyes scan the shattered mess of tea, glass, and fresh blood Draco was sitting in. 

_“You left me. I know I was wrong but why did you have to leave me? Why did you have to take Scorpius?_ ”

Harry carefully moves around the glass and kneels down next to him, his hands moving towards Draco’s shaking body. 

“Off!” He shoves Harry’s hands away from him. This was too much. He can’t handle it. “I’m going to die.” Everything was moving too fast—his breaths, his heart, his hands. He was going to die, right here in his kitchen. Something in the back of his head tells him to slow down, yet the irrationally wins out and he’s stuck clinging to his chest. “I’m gonna—”

It’s moments like this—the moments where each breath is ragged and strained—where Draco realizes how often he takes air for granted. 

“I’m not going to touch you,” Harry promises, his hands held up for Draco to see. He stays back but speaks as if he was directly in his ear. “Breathe Draco. You have to remember to breathe. You’re hyperventilating.”

_“Come back.”_

“Leave…” Draco clutches at his throat with tingling fingertips. There was no chance at breathing. He was going to die, he can feel it in the way his throat is closing up and the way his heart was so fast it might explode in his chest. Or maybe it has already exploded and what he was feeling was just the aftermath. Harry keeps talking to him in a low, soothing voice to breathe but all Draco needs is for him to just _be quiet._

He keeps talking and telling him that it’s alright when it’s not and he’s lying because how can he know that? How can anything be alright when Astoria is demanding to have Scorpius back?

He pinches his nose to reduce the stinging but it doesn’t help because his entire body feels like someone set him on fire. 

Draco smacks his hand away. “ _Get out._ ” 

“Are you crazy?! I’m not going to—”

Draco points his wand at his face, the Latin ready on his tongue if he doesn’t leave him at this very moment. “Not a request.” Another wave of shaking and a fresh wave of tears takes over his body. He doesn’t want to have a panic attack in front of Harry. Regardless of their relationship there were some things he just didn’t want other people to see. This was one of them. 

He places his head on the cool kitchen floor, ignoring the tiny stabs of pain from the bits of stray glass cutting into his skin. Chest still heaving painfully, he grips harder in a fruitless attempt to calm his racing breaths. “Please. Leave.”

_"Please. Come back.”_

When he looks up again, the cuckoo is gone, and with it, Harry.

* * *

Beside him sits four, empty bottles of Firewhiskey, the excess alcohol dripping from the mouth of the small bottles, causing a sticky mess around him. He should get off of the ground, but his drunken, fatigued body won’t cooperate long enough to even move his legs.

He’s drunk enough to get an overweight hippogriff sloshed, yet Draco doesn’t feel any better than he did when he popped the top off of the first bottle. So he tried the next bottle. And the one after that. And the one after that. Yet nothing has ceased the perpetual hopelessness swimming around in his fuzzy brain. 

Scorpius. Gone. He knew there would be a time when his son wouldn’t be right under his constant eye but he never thought it would happen by way of Astoria. 

He claws at his skin at the thought of _her_. 

Once his best friend, fictitious lover, now served as his greatest enemy. The thought of her finding a legal loophole just to keep Scorpius holed up in Paris after they’ve already made a life here in London makes his fingers twitch and they instinctively search out another bottle of Firewhiskey, only to remember a second too late that there was none left in the glasses. 

Casting a _Lumos_ , he finds that the only liquor left is at the top of his shelf, far too dangerous for him to _Accio_. 

Up above, a small gray moth hovers around the light produced from his wand, the only lit light in the room, dancing around the artificial ray in circles. Draco’s eyes follow it, drawn to the tiny insects’ movement. Watching its mesmerizing motions was a far less demanding task than figuring out what in the hell he was going to do about Astoria. 

It must be nice, being a moth. Having no worries except for finding the light in pitch darkness. Such a simple, elementary task to be given.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, on the cold, hard ground of his kitchen with Firewhiskey bottles scattered around him and thinking drunken thoughts about moths fluttering around lights when the Floo whooshes to life.

His first, terrifying thought was that it was Astoria, demanding for him to bring Scorpius back to Paris just so she can neglect him. But the other, more rational part of him remembers that even if she came through the Floo, Scorpius was with his mother, so there was no reason to be scared, even if she tries to hex him. After enduring his Aunt Bellatrix’s version of punishments, Draco learned how to take quite a bit of pain from hexes. Astoria couldn’t do any worse than her.

His next fear is that it’s Harry coming to tell him that it was over, to enjoy his suffering by himself since that’s clearly what he wants. He didn’t mean to be so harsh to him, but he couldn’t think with him in his ear like that. Couldn’t breathe with him hovering over him and trying to convince him not to be worried for his son.

He runs through a list of possible visitors in his mind. His mother. Theodore Nott to explain why he left for Belgium the morning after he took his virginity. Ron Weasley, to hex him senseless for carelessly burning his last chance. His father, after escaping his cell in Azkaban just to berate Draco for introducing his son to filthy Muggle lifestyles.

All in all, the last person he expects to see staring down at him with a raised brow and pursed lips, is Hermione Granger. 

“Malfoy.”

He wants to say something, a witty retort maybe, but his throat is too raw from crying to do anything but whimper pathetically. 

She sniffs the air with a disgusted face. “It smells like a bar in here.” Picking up an empty bottle and shaking the remaining contents around, she sighs into the air. “And I can see why. Look, do you want to tell me what’s going on or do I have to force Veritaserum down your throat for you to be truthful?”

Not the latter, good Merlin not the latter. 

Speech fails him when he tries to talk, his voice too ragged and sore for him to utter an intelligible word. The urge to hack up a cough is suppressed only by sheer will. If he starts coughing now then he fears that he’ll never stop.

Hermione holds up a hand. “Hold on, I know what you need.” 

She disappears and he’s alone again, watching the moth continue its revolution around his wand. 

He'd almost forgotten about her entirely until she reappears next to him, bending down and holding out a glass of cool water to his cracked lips. 

“Drink.”

Though he’s already had enough liquid shoved down his throat for a lifetime, he does as he’s told, the brisk beverage soothing his sore throat better than any potion or spell could have. 

She refills the glass with her wand when he’s done, letting him hold it in his hands to keep. Draco’s eyes stay fixated on the moth, his senses regained enough to feel embarrassed to allow her to see the state he’s in. 

At the very least, it must be gratifying for her. He’s tortured her relentlessly in school, so maybe this feels like a reward on her end. Though Harry swears that she holds no ill feelings towards him, Draco just can’t seem to believe that anyone not named Luna Lovegood has the ability to be so forgiving. 

He supposes stranger things have happened. Like kissing the warm lips of a man who had died and came back to life.

She makes herself comfortable next to him, taking off her jacket and lying down on the ground. Draco stares at her, perplexed. He had closed the wards, so how she was even sitting here was a mystery.

Shrouded in silence, Draco wonders if between the time that she saw him and the time that it took to get him water if Hermione stumbled upon a sudden epiphany: that she actually doesn’t give a single damn about what was wrong with him and that if he was settling for drinking in the dark, then what does it matter to her? He wouldn’t blame her if that was her reasoning.

The silence is stretched on long enough to be considered oddly comfortable when she says, “You know I read somewhere that some species of moths don’t have mouths.”

Draco looks at her. “What?” His voice is still raw but far better than it was twenty minutes ago. 

“Yeah, they just don’t have them. Adult moths only live for so long that it’s virtually useless to waste energy to create one.” 

“That’s… weird.” He ponders it. The moth flutters around his _Lumos_ in agreement _._ “But I think I also get it? I mean, why produce something you don’t need? Or want, I guess.”

The small wrinkle that forms in between Astoria’s eyebrows when she scowls fills his mind. Her Patronus calling his name rings around in his head.

“You didn’t come here to share random facts about moths I’m assuming?”

She holds up her wand, the tip illuminated from a bright Lumos for an entire ten seconds before it begins flickering in the darkness. “No, I came here because I needed advice. I think the solar eclipse that’s going to happen is affecting the quality of my spellwork due to the material of my wand’s core.” Smart of her to recognize the cause of tetchy magic so quickly, but then again, she’s Hermione Granger so he doesn’t expect less. “I came here for your help, but I think you need help more than me at the moment.”

She sets her wand down beside her and he does the same, extinguishing the only visible light in the room aside from the Waxing Moon. The grey light catches the defined edges of her cheekbones and the top of her cupid’s bow. He looks away, another memory fresh in his mind from the sight. Harry in Diagon Alley, his deep, disapproving scowl glaring down at him, the pink words reflected across his face. 

“Draco, can I tell you something? And can you promise just to hear me out?” 

After a moment he nods. He had no choice but to listen now.

She stretches out her legs, careful not to touch the shattered pieces of glass. “Harry’s told us a lot about you. Ron says he talks about you far too much, but I disagree. It’s nice, hearing about your friends being in love, you know? Especially Harry.” 

Harry’s name spoken aloud only makes him curl up further into himself with regret.

“I could tell he was in deep just from the way he talked about you. He never had so much to say about Ginny. You can imagine how sick Ron and I were of hearing your name.” The trace of a smile grows on her face. “Harry would tell me all about you, your crazy theories, your love for Scorpius, your singing.”

He groans at the last part, cringing as embarrassment washes over him from the tips of his toes to his disgusted scowl. “I’m sorry,” he croaks out. Even after Hogwarts he still found new ways to torture her.

She laughs. “You should be. I listened, only because I was wondering if this person he was telling me about was really Draco Malfoy or some bored Polyjucier. He told me everything, even down to the littlest details, like about how you obsessively check the time on that black Muggle watch Parkinson gifted you because you always stressed the importance of being on time. And I thought, ‘who knew me and Malfoy would ever have something in common?’ You have to admit, it was a bit shocking to consider, that we may actually be alike in some ways. I take punctuality very seriously as well.”

He can imagine.

She plays with a bit of the broken glass, a large piece with a smooth texture that she rubs her thumb over in even strokes. “And then he told me something else. He told me that you hate large crowds. Which, I mean, who _doesn’t?_ Merlin, after Skeeter wrote that article about me and Harry in school, there was nothing I hated more. Everyone is judging you, looking at you. It’s awful.”

“Agreed,” he replies in a croaky voice. 

She draws one leg up to her chest. Hermione laughs, low and soft. “See? We’re more alike than I had originally thought.” She sounds as though she still couldn’t believe it herself. “Of course I was still in denial at the time. I was trying to be supportive and I was coming around to the idea of you two together, but not by much.” 

He doesn’t blame her. Draco rubs his head. He needs more alcohol. Rubbing his heart, he tries to rub away that disgusting feeling in his chest he always does after a panic attack. The one that feels violated that his body would turn on him so violently that he couldn’t even breathe. 

“Ron and Harry used to joke between them that we were carbon copies of each other because of how similar we behaved. Can you believe that?”

Draco makes a small sound in disagreement. He and Hermione Granger were further opposites than him and Harry. The only thing they’ve ever been similar in was academics and even _then…_

“But then,” she continues, “I saw you sitting with Harry at The Red Lion. It was only when Ron made that joke about how much water you were drinking that I really saw it. You kept stuffing your hands under your lap and looking around like you were about to be ambushed.” She bites her lip, her thumb rubbing back and forth on the glass so fervently that he fears she might nick herself on the razor-sharp points. “I saw how quickly you left the restaurant afterward and clutched your chest and I thought, _‘Malfoy really is just like me.’_ Between the four of us at that dinner, I felt like I had more in common with you than with my best friends.”

He stops rubbing. She saw that. Shame isn’t even close to describing how he feels.

“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s hard, trying to shrink yourself for others’ comfort. Not everyone’s going to get it, but don’t feel ashamed for that.”

An unpleasant sting in his nose travels up to his eyes. He covers them with the palms of his hands. “I don’t try to be irrational; I don’t want to be. It just…the irrational thoughts always make sense, it always makes sense in my head.”

Because rationally, he knows he has legal custody of Scorpius. Rationally, he knew that if it ever came down to it, any judge would see that Astoria was not fit to parent. But when rationally gives way to irrationally... _anything_ could happen. That’s what scared him the most.

“Draco.” She removes his hands and grips them tight, her eyes bore into his, the color darker than he remembers. “I’m not going to tell you to go to a Mind Healer. Or take potions that made you feel like a hollow shell. Trust me, I’ve been there and I understand the hesitation. But what I will tell you is this,” She holds up the piece of glass in between her thumb and forefinger. “When you feel that tug in your chest, try to hold onto something that’s real. Tangible. If you can feel something as simple as a piece of glass, you’re not dying. You just need to breathe.”

She gently sets the piece of glass down next to her. With a flick of her wand, the piece and the rest of the shattered teacup vanishes. With another flick, the empty bottles are gone too and Draco burns in shame knowing that he had drunk that much alcohol in one sitting.

On steady legs, Hermione stands up, dusting off her clothes. 

“And Draco?”

He looks up. 

Her eyes flit to the top of the kitchen cabinet where an array of liquor bottles sit high and out of a child’s reach. “Stop drinking. Nothing about that is real.”

She leaves, the squeak of her boots echoing in his empty home.

* * *

It’s the following night when Draco finally speaks to Harry again. 

It’s Sunday, and usually he and Scorpius spend the morning eating breakfast with Harry, Albus, and Lily. The day is usually spent watching Muggle movies and laughing on the couch together, but instead, Harry’s children are with Ginny, and Draco has to push down his pride to speak with him.

The wards let him in and Harry’s there, on the couch in front of the Floo, looking far worse than Draco last seen him.

“Draco?”

He doesn’t say anything, just gathers Harry into his arms and buries his face in his neck. 

“I’m sorry for leaving you.”

“I’m sorry for pushing you away.” 

Harry shouldn’t be the one to apologize. He leans too far onto Harry’s body, nearly toppling them both over. “Sorry. I am so tired,” he mumbles. Between the tiredness that usually comes from a panic attack and from the large amounts of alcohol he consumed yesterday, all of the fight is drained from his body. Draco wanted nothing more than to fall asleep on the couch with Harry and forget about his problems for a few hours. Preferably, in Harry’s arms. 

He lets Harry lead them over to the couch, falling down onto the soft plush and sighing. Much better than lying drunk on the kitchen floor.

He lets Harry check his hands for any stray cuts as Draco settles his head in his lap, but he knows he won’t find anything. Draco made sure to heal everything before he came over. Merlin knows he would have kittens if he had seen the deep puncture wounds the glass left behind.

“I’m okay Harry.”

“There was so much blood…”

“I’m sorry.” He really hadn’t meant for him to see any of that. Those sort of emotions are supposed to be private, hidden. Draco buries his nose in his stomach. “Won't happen again.” A nagging voice in the back of his head tells him that if he just takes those potions, it really won’t happen again. Only, the voice sounds too much like Astoria and he blocks it out. 

Harry’s fingers are flowing through his hair, the blunt nails scratching soothingly at his scalp as he lets the strands cascade down to the floor. He could fall asleep like this, with the fireplace warming his face and Harry warming the other parts of him that no physical fire could reach. 

“You can talk to me you know,” Harry murmurs. “I won’t judge you.”

Draco swallows. He thinks back to what Hermione has said. _Not everyone’s going to get it._ He wonders if Harry will. Burning green eyes stare down at him and he thinks possibly he wasn’t giving Harry’s emotional intelligence enough credit. “I know.”

“I can hear you thinking. It’s not healthy just to bottle everything up.” Fingers brush along the cut of his jaw, dancing under his chin and down to the hollow of his collarbone, prompting him to speak. He could command a room with his lips and a thousand people with his touch. 

“I know.”

“If you know, then say it like it is, Draco.”

The fire cracks, Harry’s fingers run over the hairs of his eyebrow, and Draco fails to swallow the truth sitting on his tongue. 

“I am terrified of being alone.”

He doesn’t know when it started— this perseverance fear of being the only soul in a room. He’s never had an issue before, not when his father left for business for days at a time or his mother was busying hosting parties for Ministry officials. In fact, he actually used to _enjoy_ it. Silence was a better alternative to pretending that he cared about his mother’s parties or his father’s teachings. But then Scorpius came along, and Draco suddenly didn't know how to let go.

There's more. Much more. “I know I shouldn’t drink as much as I do, but I’ve taken the potions before and I couldn’t get out of bed for weeks because of it. I don’t take them because Scorpius doesn’t deserve two neglectful parents.” 

And more.

“I hate obligations and I hate my father. Though if I had to choose, I think sometimes I hate myself the most. Sometimes. Please don’t take that statement for more than it’s worth.”

And then a bit more.

“I love you, so much Harry. But I can’t stand it the way you look at me sometimes. You think there’s something wrong with me, I know you do.”

Harry holds his chin between his fingers firmly, “It's not like that. Granted, I do think a potion and a Mind Healer would really help you—”

He feels something in his chest snap. “That,” Draco growls, “that right there is what I can’t stand.” Leave it to Harry to prove his point unintentionally. “All you’re doing is telling me the same thing everyone else does. I don’t need to go to a Mind Healer or take those bloody potions. I just need to suck it up, it always passes anyway, just like it did today.”

His fingers stop moving. “And you genuinely believe that?”

Draco looks up at him with hard, determined eyes. “I genuinely believe that.” 

He’ll die believing that too. 

Draco’s dealt with far worse, yet no one ever made a fuss about his mental health when he was tasked with killing Dumbledore or made to watch Voldemort torture Muggles or dealt with the death of the man who healed his scarred chest. Yet, everyone has an opinion on what he should do just because his hands shake every once and awhile. It was all so fucked—no one cared when actually traumatizing events occurred in his life. 

No, instead he was put on trial and publicly shamed for it all. In the spirit of saying it like it is, mental health was a joke. Only Hermione seemed to somewhat understand his frustration.

He curls his hand into a fist, biting on the knuckles as the deep-seated anger he thought he had buried away resurfaces. He’s been the villain for years, what’s the difference now? 

“So what?” Harry demands, “I have to just sit there and watch you suffer?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Saying I’m suffering is going a bit far.”

His mouth thins and draws into a ridge, tight line. He cups his jaw again, pinching his chin harder in between his two fingers. “Watching you being unable to breathe is suffering. For you and for me.” He brings his face closer, as though being nose to nose would help drive his point home. “Do you have any idea what it looks like when you hyperventilate like that?”

“Of course I do,” he lies through clenched teeth. He actually has no idea how it looks and he doesn’t fancy seeing it anytime soon. “I’m fine Harry, clearly or I wouldn’t be here.”

“Don’t you think you deserve better?” Draco laughs coldly. He was done discussing this anymore. He was exhausted. “You don’t listen to anyone,” Harry says. “Hell, you don’t even listen to yourself most of the time.”

“I’m over it. Who cares about that when Astoria and Finley want to take Scorpius back to Paris? I can never relax as it is, now I have to worry about them wanting to take my son away from me?” He shakes his head; Harry’s priorities were messed up. “I’m not discussing this fictional mental illness shite anymore, I need to move onto what matters.”

“No, Draco!” Draco recoils at the harshness of his tone, moving away from his lap and curling up on the other side of the couch, watching him with the wariness of a startled cat. Harry sighs, placing his head back onto the couch and rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly. “I’m sorry, I just…can we _please_ discuss this? I understand that you’re stressed about Scorpius, but can we please have an actual conversation about you first? You had the worst panic attack I’ve ever seen, we can’t just brush that aside and pretend it never happened. ”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he mutters into his knees, ignoring Harry’s dark glare. He wants to tell him to bugger off with this stupid conversation so that they can move onto more pressing matters. But, compromises.

He’s starting to detest that word.

“You have five minutes.”

Harry sighs in relief. “That’s all I need. Let’s trace this back, shall we?”

Instinctually, Draco twists his nose up, remembering why it is that Harry used to bug the shite out of him. 

“One,” he holds up a finger. “You are uncomfortable around large groups of people.”

Draco snarls, aghast. “No I’m not! I stand in front of the Astronomy department once a week!”

“Love,” Draco hisses at the pet name. Now was not the time. “Four people isn’t a large crowd. Also, you have some sort of familiarity with them, regardless of how big of arseholes they are to you.”

Whatever.

“So one,” he says, “Both on our first date and at that time I was an arse and forced you to stand in front of the PTA group.” At least he admitted it. Draco doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash. “On the date, I thought you were just bored or annoyed by me, but you kept shaking every so often and fidgeting. You’re a bloody fidgeter you know that?”

He scoffs. Says the Prime Minister of fidgeting.

“At the meeting you were visibly uncomfortable and again, I apologize for that.”

“It’s not the worst thing you’ve done,” he murmurs into his knees. There’s a sharp intake of breath beside him, and he knows he’s thinking about his scarred chest, though Draco wasn’t alluding to that. Harry will have to learn that those scars are nothing more than that. Scars. He’d argue that leaving him helpless and alone without a wand in the middle of a war was worse. 

“Right. And then there was Hermione and Ron.”

“That doesn’t count. I was…tired.”

His mind flashes to the dirty sidewalk that left stains on the knees of his trousers after he keeled over from lack of oxygen. Tired. He was tired. And admittingly at bit nervous. But he made it through, just like all of the other shite he’s been through. The most important part of any hardship was to make it to the other side.

“I don’t like it when you blatantly lie about your anxiety like that.” 

“Drop it.”

Harry twists his mouth up and for a second, guilt runs through Draco’s veins at the sight. He looks on the verge of crying. Maybe from frustration. Or anger. Harry takes a breath, recomposing himself as he says, “Two. Several of my students who have anxiety do the same things as you: worrying excessively about the time, hyperventilate—”

“For the last fucking time, I do not have—” 

“Being afraid to let certain things or,” he continues, “ _people_ out of their sight.”

Draco turns his entire body away. That’s what he gets for being vulnerable— he’s punished for telling his truth.

“Draco…” He doesn’t care what Harry had to say. He’s said enough. “Three. You’ve literally just said it yourself Draco. _‘I can never relax.’_ Does that sound healthy to you?”

His words are like an icy shock to his system. “What?”

“It’s your words. I’m only retelling them.”

He should have gone to his mother's first. She wouldn’t have cornered him like this.

“It can’t always be about other people, Draco.” His hands grip tighter. Draco tries to tug away, feeling trapped. “Look, whether you decide to get help or not, do it for you. Not for me. Not for Scorpius. Only you. You deserve so much better than what you’re giving yourself, don’t you think you’ve earned a bit of peace after all of this?”

He thinks he needs to figure out this shite with Astoria lest he finds himself living in an empty home sooner than he expected. 

“Draco, where are you going?”

Harry’s standing up now, hot on Draco’s tail as he follows him to the Floo, his chest rising and in a controlled, unnatural way. Like he was trying to quell his growing panic. 

“Out. I’m leaving Harry.”

He grips onto his hand when he reaches for the Floo powder on the mantle.

“That sounds a lot like an end to me.” Shaky breathes puff out onto his cheek, hot and desperate like the heat from the fire. He tugs a little harder on his hand. “You…you’re coming back? Right?”

Draco snarls, yanking his hand away at the insulting implication. “Don’t be daft Potter. I’ll always come back for you.” 

He means it too. But for now, the only thing he needs is the space to figure things out. The _important_ things. Scorpius first, him second. That’s how it’s always been and that’s how it always will be.

There are some things you just can't compromise on.

* * *

The silver fox stares back at him, waiting patiently for him to feed it a message, it’s tail swaying back and forth in the air like his braid used to. 

He’s been sitting on his roof for what feels like years, trying to best formulate a response to Astoria’s Patronus message. Destructive anger is his first reaction. Not responding is his second. Yet Draco knows that there was no ignoring Finley and Astoria Greengrass. 

When his hands start to shake, Harry’s words twirl around in his mind, distracting him. He should have never gone to him. Harry Potter, like always, is a distraction filling his head with nonsensical problems. 

The fox twitches its ear and he takes a deep breath of the sweet spring air. 

“Astoria.” Draco swallows some of the bitterness downing his tongue at the feeling of her name in his mouth. “You’re going to lose this fight, regardless of what you or your father do.”

His wand taps against the tiles of the roof as he says, “I’ll be in France at 2 pm next Sunday. Meet me at the house then.”

The thought of going back to France was unpleasant enough, but knowing that Astoria and fucking Finley Greengrass would be waiting for him, sent a surge of fire through his veins. 

“And tell Finley, if he sends me another bloody gift basket, I’ll burn him.” 

* * *

The day before he’s supposed to leave for France, he goes to his mother’s, hoping to get some last minute advice on how to deal with Astoria, Finley’s demands, and keep Scorpius blissfully unaware of the war raging in his name. It’s only right to want the advice of a person powerful enough to evade Voldemort's invasion and outmaneuver him. With a straight back and determined gait, he recites the list of questions in his head on how to deal with a lesser enemy when he enters from the Floo.

He ends up crying on her lap.

With a tear-stained face and puffy eyes, he apologizes for doing so, for temporarily forgetting his age and for not keeping his emotions in check. 

Her thumb swipes across his eyebrow and she tsks at him for his apology. “Before you were ever thirty-one,” she said, “you were my son and my son is allowed to cry on my lap.”

She kisses him twice on his forehead, her finger tracing his dragon earring. Then, like the Slytherin she was, she pulls his hair back and whispers in his ear everything he needs to know about how to keep what was his.

* * *

Every prediction Draco looked at indicated that today was going to be a bad day.

Venus is rising west this month, so naturally he drinks a bit of a homebrewed potion made with dandelion root and Erumpent tail so that his tongue won’t betray him in anger.

The wards are down, allowing him to Apparate inside to the living room of his old home. He’s never realized how silent this house was until he’s standing in the foyer. It’s empty too— though the art on the walls and hand picked accent pieces would give the impression that there’s life springing from the floorboards. 

Draco doesn’t know how he managed to live in this house for so long.

He doesn’t know how Astoria continues to.

Soft voices float from the drawing room. He follows them, walking on silent footfalls through the art-filled corridor. Past a nook in the study—that’s where he developed his first hypothesis. Past the kitchen—that’s where he and Scorpius sat alone most nights. 

Finley’s white hair is the first thing he sees through the opened door, followed by Astoria, looking withdrawn and sickly in a pink silk dress that wears her more than she wears it. She fiddles with her earring, the flash of white teeth digging into her bottom lip. They sit under the crystal chandelier Draco purchased years ago, sitting in the lap of luxury and surrounded by fancy antiques that have no real meaning as they watch the flames from the fireplace flicker endlessly.

“It’s disgusting, really,” says Finley in a refined, aristocratic drawl. He turns his head towards Astoria, looking for her agreement, and Draco wrinkles his nose. It seems that Finley is still sporting those horrendous sideburns. 

On careful feet, he sneaks up behind the both of them, his eyes narrowing at the two hunched over figures hissing about him, not knowing the object of their gossiping is standing right behind them.

“I knew we should have never gotten involved with that family. One’s in jail, one’s a deviant.”

Draco clears his throat. 

Finley whips his head around, cold blue eyes landing on him and a false smile replacing his previous grimace. Arsehole.

He stops a yard away from the small dining table they were stationed at, none of them willing to make the first move towards the other. 

“Draco,” Finley flashes too-white teeth his way. Glamour doesn’t do him any favors. “It’s been far too long, I’d say.” Draco blinks. He’s not here for pleasantries. “I’m glad you finally decided to move past this,” he waves a wrinkled hand around, shrewdly side-eyeing Astoria, “mishap.”

Finley Greengrass is a man suffering from a lifetime of never being told no. Draco concludes that he will be the first person to ever tell him so.

He doesn’t sit in the seat Finley pulls out for him. He only straightens his back, glaring at the sitting man before him. “That’s a bit presumptuous of you, don’t you think? For you to assume reconciliation is possible simply because you say it is.”

His Glamour doesn’t conceal the wrinkles around his mouth as he scowls. “You cannot legally keep Astoria away from her own child, no more than she can from you.”

Draco reaches into his back trouser pocket, waving the papers he digs out in between his two fingers. “I’m not trying to keep Astoria away from Scorpius. However, legally, I can if I choose to.”

The first piece of his mother’s advice: Always have a papertrail of legal documents. It’s a good thing he had the foresight to do that before he left France. Only a truly daft person would take a child out of the country without notifying the government.

With a flick of his wand, he sends the papers that he and Astoria both signed months ago over to Finley’s lap, not moving an inch from his spot away from the table. He glances over the papers, snapping the documents as he turns it from front to back, his jaw hardening with ire underneath the horrendous white sideburns. 

He stands up, shoving the papers back the center of his chest with such force, Draco feels his breath leave his body for a fraction of a second. 

His jaw aches with something morbidly cruel he has stored in the hollow of his cheek, but the charmed potion keeps it there. 

“I’ve tried to play nice with you Draco.” Finley looms over him, being one of the few people who were taller than him. As intimidating as he tries to be, Draco knows from experience that there are far scarier things then Finley Greengrass. His tea-scented breaths puff out onto his cheek as he snarls, “But clearly, we’re beyond nice at this point.”

“Clearly.”

He knows he loathes him. Even before he and Astoria were betrothed, he and Finley never really _got_ each other. They were always a bit too alike and a bit too different. 

The second piece of advice his mother gifted him: Always maintain eye contact. Intimidation was a strategic, intricate game that he and Finley both knew how to play well. “If I remember correctly, I don’t legally have to be here. I’m here only as a courtesy. If you had read the documents closer you would have seen that Astoria signed away all custody to me months ago. Legally, you have no ground to stand on. Morally, you don’t have much either.” 

Finley glances at Astoria from the corner of his eye, breaking the stare down they were engaging in. Draco feels his lips curl upwards into a tiny smirk. “Is this true?”

She looks away. She’s never been much good at playing this game. 

The last and most poignant advice his mother told him: Nothing is off-limits. With that in mind, he goes for the jugular.

Draco shrugs, looking between Finley and Astoria with a lazy gaze, sneering. “Scorpius hardly asks about either of you anyway. I think if he’s managed to move on already, you two should as well. It’s only sensible.”

With a red face, Finley reaches for his robe pocket, the one where he knows he keeps his wand, and Draco prepares himself for the nasty hex that was coming.

Glass clinks together as Astoria jostles the dining table. _“Father.”_ Her voice is sharp and commanding. He blinks twice when he sees some of the passion that he thought she lost years ago spring to life in her eyes. “Out.” When he doesn’t move she shoots out of her seat, a glass of wine spilling as she destabilizes the small table. _“Now.”_

Finley leaves, but not without purposefully knocking into Draco’s shoulder and hissing a foul comment about his sexuality in his ear on his way out. 

Draco doesn’t flinch. He’s been through worse.

The sound of Finley’s heavy footfalls trail behind his muttered curses about poofters and Malfoys, and it’s all Draco can do not to turn around and hex him dead. He doesn’t need his mother to tell him that he was a better duelist and far more magically powerful than Finley will ever be.

This is far from over with him, but for now, Draco can breathe a little easier knowing that he could continue to keep Scorpius far away from Finley's claws.

Astoria sinks back into her seat, weariness spreading over her features. “Draco,” she sighs. 

She sounds like her Patronus, floating in his face and begging for him to come back.

At the sound of her voice, his feet become unglued from his spot, unsteady as he moves closer to Astoria’s crumpled figure. His first instinct is to comfort her until his bitterness wins out. His hands remain firmly by his sides.

White, bony fingers dig into her carefully made low bun, clawing at her scalp. “I never wanted it to be like this Draco. I’m sorry.” 

Exhaustion racks his body. “I am so _mad_ at you.” Draco sinks down into the chair Finley once occupied, clenching his fists and pressing them to his throbbing temples. “I would have stayed had you just done more.” 

There had been so many times where Draco wanted to give up, to run away and pretend as if he didn’t have a crying bundle of responsibilities too. He made sacrifices, they all did, so why couldn’t Astoria do the same? Why was she always the first to run away and the last to come back?

He doesn’t point this out or give in to the burning desire to throw every moment Draco stepped up and parented Scorpius while she acted as if he didn’t exist. This is her chance to come clean about all of her bottled up emotions.

This was her chance, her last one at that. After this, he won’t give her the benefit of the doubt again.

“I… I know.” She quickly brushes away something from her face. A tear, he thinks. “I haven’t felt like myself for years. I know it’s not a good enough excuse but it’s all I have. I wish I would have done more too. But you have to believe me when I say that some days I physically couldn’t.” Her chin wrinkles, quivering along with the twitching veins under her wet eyes.

His fingers clench around the damp green table cloth. He tilts his head, tries to look at her from a different angle than how he usually does.

She isn’t exactly the devilish, emotionless figure from his tainted memories. Nor is she the same, easy-going woman she was those years before Scorpius was born and when she served as the only remedy for Draco’s misdirected anger at the world. They were no longer those people, so he can’t expect her to act like that woman anymore either. 

“Please, please bring him back, I promise, I’ll make it up to you. Both of you.” He rubs below his eyes, sitting back into his chair. She’s gripping at the sides of the table, her face desperate. “Please.”

“No.”

More tears follow the first. “Draco…”

Draco cares for her, he actually does. With everything that’s happened, it had never been his intention to make her suffer. But he has to look out for Scorpius first, regardless of her pleas. He won’t risk having Scorpius fall into the cycle of neglect he was in before they left Paris. 

Things like that require trust. He doesn’t know if he has much of that with her.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t visit him. You always can, I’ll never prevent you from doing so. But you need to prove yourself, not to me as much as to him. Don’t you think you’ve hurt him? Can you look me in my eyes and tell me that you genuinely think you’ve changed?”

He must have been getting through to her, because she runs a hand over the erratic ends of her mused brown hair, eyes focused on the spilled wine dripping down the table cloth. She can never look him in his eyes when he asks. 

“You’re right.”

“Astoria,” Dark lashes flit in response. “None of this, except for the divorce, is permanent. I want you to share custody with you, but you have to get yourself better first. However it is that looks for you.” 

That small wrinkle forms in between her trimmed eyebrows.

“And what about you?” Her tone is accusatory much like those potions he knows is somewhere stored away in the house. “We can’t sit and pretend that we’re both not a bit fucked up, now can we?” He shifts his seat, glaring at her. “Are you getting help? Actual, professional help that isn’t at the bottom of a bottle?”

He recoils at her inquisitions. First Harry, now her. “That’s none of your business.” And then, because he can’t help himself he adds, “At least I don’t forget to feed my own child.”

She glares at him through her tears, looking all the more like her father the longer they hold each other gaze. He prepares for her to strike back about his panic attacks or his smoking habit but she doesn’t. A drowning sound escapes her mouth and a hand flying to her face to muffle it. He tenses, wondering if he somehow went too far until he realizes that she wasn’t sobbing. She was… _laughing_ , of all things.

“ _Oh_.”

“What?”

“We’re awful at this.”

He huffs, feeling himself unclench. If that wasn’t the truth. “I’m sorry.” Draco looks away at the crystallized antique vase on the fireplace mantle. Bitterly he adds, “You’re right anyway.” 

“Draco,” she sighs. “You know I love you right?” He freezes. Noticing his reaction, she laughs, shaking her hands quickly. “Not like that, love. I think we both know. We always knew, didn't we?” She laughs again and he unclenches completely. He hasn’t heard her laugh in a long time. “But, if you would, listen to me?”

He nods and she slides her hand over, tentatively wrapping her dainty fingers around his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, he squeezes back. 

She takes a deep breath. “I want to apologize. I’m sorry for cheating. For not being there when you and Scorpius needed me. You have always been able to handle so much, sometimes I don’t know how you are able to get out of bed in the morning while I can’t.”

He squeezes again, a bit harder this time. He can swallow the bitterness of her cheating. It stings, but he can be fair too. 

Compromises. 

“But don’t you think we can both do better? We clearly both have issues. I’m not saying that I’m perfect in the slightest, but at least I’m not denying it. I know you hated it, but there’s more than one potion available, Draco. There’s even Muggle medicine you can try…”

There it goes again. The conversation that makes him so tired that he can sleep for a light year. He doesn’t know why Harry and Astoria are both so mentally exhausting. Neither of them knew how to let things _go._

“Astoria?” Her words fade away and she raises a hopeful brow. “Can we please stop talking about this?”

Her fair features crumpled in weariness. “Okay Draco.” She rubs her bare arm bashfully, letting silence fill the room until she admits in a quiet voice, “I have been. Getting help, that is. It’s not so bad or so shameful once you just do it.”

“Astoria…” As happy as he was to hear that she was going to a Mind Healer, Draco doesn’t think he can stand to hear another person telling him about the wonders of therapy. 

“Right, sorry.” 

There’s silence, uncomfortable and deafening in its stoic loudness. He wants to leave so badly, go back to London, to his home, his real home, and fall asleep in Harry’s bed. France was nothing like how he left it. The person he left in the study and the kitchen isn’t the same either.

Merlin, he hates this house, with it’s dying plants and dusty cabinets. With Finley, who was probably somewhere close by right now, prowling in the shadows and waiting to hex him for being gay and divorced. 

He stands up, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers. “I should go…”

“Wait!” She leaps out of her seat and holds tightly onto his hand, desperation drumming from the pulse in her fingers to her mouth. “Wait. Scorpius, how is he?”

He can breathe a little easier. Talking about Scorpius was always much easier than sitting in silence. “He’s good. Very good. He has friends, a best friend actually.” He snorts a little. “And a Pygmy Puff.”

Her mouth puckers in disbelief. “No way. You hate animals.”

“I do. But Princess is alright. I suppose he’s not the worst animal to have around.”

Astoria cocks her head, laughing. Three times now she’s laughed. Maybe she really is getting better. Maybe. “His name is _Princess?”  
_ ”

“Scorpius is an interesting character.”

_When you get to know him._

He lets her walk him to the Floo in the other room, and he gives her pieces to start to know him again—how he hates spaghetti because he makes it too much and only pretends to like astronomy because he doesn’t want to disappoint him. That Malfoy snarkiness that sometimes reminds Draco too much of himself. His new glasses and his strange fondness for a certain dark-haired child. He doesn’t mention that they were living in Muggle London or about Scorpius’ Muggle schooling. If Finley was still around, Draco might not make it out of France alive. 

“How’s Gavin?”

“ _Stavin_ ,” Astoria corrects, “He’s good. He’s… been helping me.” If he didn’t know better, he’d say that she was actually blushing at the mention of her boyfriend’s name.

Though Draco would still hex him blind for daring to enter into his home with his son in the house, he’s glad the bastard was doing something useful with his life. 

She tugs a bit at his loose hair. “I like this. It’s very different. Very you.”

Draco smiles down at her. “Thank you, Ha—” He clamps his mouth shut. Fuck.

She laughs again and it’s officially the most he’s heard her laugh in one day. “I know about you and Harry Potter. You two make quite the couple.” She reaches up on her tiptoes and plants a soft kiss on his cheek. “Keep the hair and the man.”

He wraps his hands around hers. Holds them close to his chest and kisses one dry knuckle apologetically. “Will you come to visit? I lied before, with your Father. Scorpius does miss you, he doesn’t say it sometimes, but I know he does.”

Weary brown eyes glance up at him. He kisses another knuckle, willing her not to say no.

“Some days are better than others, Draco. Some months are easier than the next. I don’t want to promise anything I can’t keep. But I’ll try, I’ll try. I can promise that.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fun fact: mother cuckoos frequently leave their eggs in other birds' nests to be raised and fed by them. In contrast, male foxes are actually wonderful fathers. I just thought that was interesting.
> 
> Comments and kudos are loved and appreciated!


	10. Draconid Meteor Shower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I can’t believe this is the last official chapter. It feels like just yesterday I was neglecting my Astronomy homework to write this (pls think twice before taking Astronomy, especially in college, worst shit I’ve ever taken). Thank you all for being such wonderful readers and continually making my day with your comments, kudos, etc. I always had a fear of posting my work online and y’all have exceeded my expectations for this story. And if you’re wondering, yes, there will be an epilogue posted soon :)

“You are the love of my life.”

“Say it again.”

And he does, the words heating Draco’s skin as he murmurs it along the cut of his cheekbones. England is pink and warm on his rooftop and Harry’s arms feel warmer. The day’s events have drained him and instead of taking his frustration out on some innocent trinkets and burning them, Draco opted to choose a lighter, safer option—letting Harry completely dote on him. 

He keeps waiting for Harry to bring up their last conversation, the one that led to him storming out of Harry’s house and pissed enough to go back to the bottom of his desk drawer again. Yet, the only thing he'd given him when he arrived back from France was comfort and kisses. Along with the narcissus flowers Harry gifts him, he receives a massage and a song at Draco’s request. Harry doesn’t believe him when he says that he genuinely likes hearing him sing. No matter how horrible it is, he can’t convince him not like it.

“You’re so dramatic,” Harry snickers when Draco purrs while he strokes his hair. “You’ve always been so theatrical.”

“Mmhmm,” his eyes close on their own accord. “Less talking, more petting.”

He deserves this. After dealing with Astoria and Finley, Draco thinks he deserves the right to be a bit dramatic. Being an adult as it is was exhausting. Dealing with the Greengrass’ was enough to put anyone in an early grave. 

“Sing for me again?”

Harry groans loudly. “It’s going to be awful.”

“Don’t care.”

Harry’s just beginning to butcher the first note when a shrill shrieking pulls them apart. 

_“Draco Malfoy!”_

Harry’s hand flies to his pocketed wand. “Who the—”

Draco bats his hand away from his wand. “Merlin, it’s the bloody cow again.” He stands up dragging a confused Harry with him as they descend back into Draco’s office. 

“ _Draco! Lucius! Malfoy!_ ”

“Pansy! Will you shut the—” He coughs, noticing Marcéline in Pansy’s arms. “...heck up.” Bloody hell, Pansy knew exactly how to tame him. 

She smirks. “Nice save dumbarse.” She shifts Marcéline in her arms. The little girl was surprisingly calm in the face of her mother’s squawking. Poor baby must be used to it. “I need to talk to you.”

“So I see.”

“Potter,” she grabs his hand once he’s down from the ladder and gives it a quick shake. “Nice finally seeing you after all these years, sorry for trying to hand you over to the Dark Lord and all that shite, though congrats on becoming fit as hell and bagging this hot piece of—”

“Pansy!” Draco hisses, “I think he gets it.”

Harry looks as if someone stunned him in the stomach, his mouth opening and closing on its own accord. “Erm… thanks?”

She gives him a curt nod. “Welcome. Now Draco, what is this mess I hear about you and Astoria?” She plops down in Draco’s leather desk chair, her feet propped up on his desk and dangerously close to his perfectly placed framed photo of Marcéline.

Draco narrows his eyes at her. “How did you find out about that?”

Her fingers brush through Marcéline’s thick coil of dark curls. A small smirk grows on her face. “Narcissa. We’re gal pals.”

He rolls his eyes. Those two were thick as thieves and constantly had secret gossiping sessions that he was never invited to. 

She gestures to Marcéline who was beginning to get a bit fussy in her arms. “You mind if I feed her here?” He’s about to say that he doesn’t mind but Pansy’s already pulled out her left breast and held it to Marcéline’s whimpering mouth. “Thanks. Anyway, so what are we gonna do Draco? I know some very good hexes that’ll make her drown in her own tears. And for fuckarse Finley I think a nice _Sectumsempra_ would do…” Harry winces next to him and she nods her head apologetically. “Cheers, Potter.” 

Harry curls in on himself and Draco worries for a moment that he’s going to be sick. Sometimes it wasn’t just Gryffindors that lacked tact. 

“If you’d listen you’ll know that we’re not going to do anything,” Draco says calmly. “And _you_ are certainly not doing anything. You need to rest you crazy bint.” 

But Pansy isn’t listening to him. Her left leg is bouncing rapidly in anger and Draco can tell it’s all she can do not to Apparate to France and slice Astoria in half. “I’ll fuck that bitch up if I see her,” Harry whimpers behind him as if he wasn’t the most powerful wizard alive, “As soon as I lose this water weight, _I swear..._ ”

Draco sighs. Pansy always was an animated character when pissed. “Are you done?”

“Fuck no! I’ll—ow! Oh Marcéline, sweetie, no grabbing. That’s a no no, love.” She gently removes Marcéline’s chubby little hand when she grabs too forcefully at her breast. After planting a quick kiss on her daughter’s open palm, she flips her sweaty hair out of her face. “What are you going to tell Scorpius?”

Draco gulps. He hadn’t thought about that yet. “I guess I’ll tell him that his mother and I talked and she’s going to try to be a better parent?” It wasn’t solidified, he had barely had time to process his feelings about the meeting.

“Are you kidding me?! You’re going to give that kid a—ow—complex!” 

“I agree, Draco,” Harry adds. “Best not to get Scorpius’ hopes up when everything is still so uncertain with her.” Pansy flips her hand in agreement, daring Draco to refute their point.

He looks over at his wall, wishing that the answer was plastered somewhere amidst the sea of calculations and predictions. 

“It just feels wrong, keeping something this big from him. We’re always so honest with each other…”

Pansy holds out her hand. “Come here. Come on now.” She wiggles her hand impatiently and he entwines her swollen fingers with his. “Draco, I want you to stop thinking that you owe her anything. _She’s_ the one who has to prove herself, not you. Say you tell him and she just ends up disappointing him again. Then what?”

“I…” 

“You’ll be wishing that you wouldn’t have told him anything, that’s what.” She pulls him down to her level, her voice gentle like she was speaking to Marcéline. “You really are a big softie Draco. Like an angry kitten really.” He growls. Dragons are _terrifying._ “And I know that you care about her after everything. But you’re not a bad person for wanting to protect Scorpius’ peace of mind.” She looks at Harry. “Help me out here Potter?”

Harry places a hand on Draco’s elbow. “Just think about it Draco, for children, sometimes ignorance is bliss.” His face sours. “Trust me.”

“I guess so…” 

“Good, now that that’s settled will you hold my darling for me, darling?” She holds out Marcéline and he takes her without hesitation, cuddling her to his chest like he used to do with Scorpius. Her tiny, curled hand yanks at his hair with surprising strength. Lucky for her, she favored her father’s dark, elegant looks and hopefully in personality too. Pansy heaves herself out of the chair, swatting away Draco’s hand when he tries to help her up like a good best friend should. 

Marcéline is much better company anyway, her toothless smile so heartbreakingly adorable that Draco doesn’t even notice Pansy whispering in Harry’s ear. 

Pansy holds out her arms out for Marcéline, cooing at her softly. “I can’t stay for long, it’s time for a certain someone’s nap.” She squishes Marcéline in between them as she kisses him on the cheek. “I love you Draco. Don’t let that woman mess with your head.” With a quick kiss on his other cheek she murmurs, “And check on your boyfriend, I think he may need a hug.”

The Floo whooshes her and Marcéline away when Draco turns to look at Harry’s terror-stricken face. Oh Merlin. “What did she say to you that’s gotten you so frazzled?”

Harry wipes his palms in his trousers. He’s blushing terribly, highlighting the naturally red undertones of his brown skin. “Castration spells, should I mess up with you.” His body seizes defensively, “But I would never—”

Draco laughs, too exhausted to do anything else. “Don’t worry, your cock is safe with me.” He leans his head back into Harry’s shoulder, his exposed neck near his lips. “That is, unless you don’t finish singing for me. I wouldn’t be responsible for whatever she does then.”

“You’re an arsehole.”

He smiles, tugging his hands over his waist. “And what else?”

A sigh trails over his skin. “And also the love of my life,” he grumbles.

Draco pats his cheek approvingly. “There we go.”

* * *

“A braid?” Harry gasps, scandalized.

“It’s more professional.” His braid twitches in agreement across his finely pressed robes. “Besides, I’m hoping they won’t care what my hair looks like after the experiment is done.” 

His 31 year old boyfriend tugs at his braid as they walk into the Ministry, batting at it and making it swish behind his back like a cat with a toy.

Harry’s like a kid tagging along with their parents at their job for the day—annoying as hell but unfathomably good company. 

The witch at the reception desk for the Ministry purses her lips at his appearance, too upset by his presence to notice Harry standing behind him. He grabs onto Harry’s sleeve when a sudden bout of worry grips him. “How do I look? Do I look Death Eater-ish? Should I take out my dragon earring?”

“Draco, love, you look fine, I promise. Look, whatever happens today, just know that it can’t be worse than last night,” Harry points out. 

Draco pinches him as hard as he can with the box in his arms. Last night he attempted to cook a very nice dinner for Harry and the children only for all of them to feed the pasta he slaved over to those sodding Pygmy Puffs. Apparently, there was a thing as ‘too much’ seasoning. It still sounds made up. 

He hisses at Harry’s loud laughter. “Fuck off Potter.”

“Not my fault you tried to kill everyone with paprika. I can still taste it.”

Whatever. It’s not like anyone died.

A broad-shouldered man dressed in fancy, deep red Auror robes steps into the lift with them, nodding respectfully at Harry and ignoring Draco entirely. Draco internally curses himself when Harry’s fingers on his braid stop moving. Fuck, fuck, fuck. How he have been so stupid?

His heart is nearly bursting with guilt and it explodes once the Auror steps out to his floor. “Fuck Harry, I’m so sorry, I forgot that we’ll be—”

Harry slings his arm around his waist, jostling the items in his hands. “Draco, it’s fine. I went through extensive therapy. Not to _brag_ or anything, but I’m pretty much mentally healthy.” 

Draco rolls his eyes, though relieved beyond comprehension to know that Harry wasn’t too bothered by being this close to the Auror department. “I’m shaking with jealousy.”

He beams, lighting up the dimly lit lift with his smile. 

Shaking legs carry him to the closed metal doors of the conference room, and for a moment he actually is shaking with jealousy. And fear. Mainly fear. 

He’s moving a bit too fast and Harry slows him down. “Hey,” Harry clamps a hand on his shoulder, “I love you.”

That goofy grin on his face is enough to settle his nerves at the moment. “Whatever.” His cheeks heat up. “Love you too,” Draco grumbles, meaning every word.

The board members are there, looking crabbier than usual. Parcel keeps yawning and Crass’ head keeps slipping out of her liver-spotted hands. From the looks he gets as he steps into the room, he quickly realizes that he couldn’t have come at a worse time. 

Then Harry steps into the room behind him and suddenly everyone’s wide fucking awake. 

“Mr. Potter,” Galatea stutters out, standing up as though she was getting ready to curtsy to him. Draco rolls his eyes. Sometimes it was hard remembering that not everyone has the pleasure of being assaulted by Harry Potter’s morning breath like Draco is. “To what do we owe this undeserved visit?”

Harry waves them off. “Just here to support my boyfriend.” He wiggles his fingers. “Just forget I’m even here.” He makes his way to the empty seats, shooting Draco an encouraging smile while the board members gawk at him. 

He doesn’t mind too much, their continued staring giving Draco enough time to set up the bowl of water on its axel and set down his Ministry approved Calming Draughts. He leaves the secure magical stamp of approval on the vials so that no one can accuse the ‘Scary Death Eater’ of trying to poison the Astrology and Astronomy board members. Harry squirms excitedly in his seat, ready to see the people Draco’s complained about for months losing their shite like he did when he has them cast their _Lumos._

They glare at him when he hands each of them a Calming Draught. It wasn’t strong by any means and would wear off by the time the experiment was over, but he has to explain the importance of using a Calming Draught to counteract the natural tension already occurring in their magical cores several times over before they finally give in and take the potion.

He’s just explaining the premise of his experiment and the vibrations of their wands when the conference doors slam open.

“Draco!”

Fuck.

Jaspers stomps into the room, calling his name far too loudly than what was socially appropriate. “Ah, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you! You want to know your future for today?”

He winces. Merlin please be with him. Don’t let him strangle this man. “Jaspers,” he says in a soft, even voice, “I am in the middle of presenting right now. Can this not wait until after?”

He looks up, his blue eyes widening when he realizes the four board members glaring at him. Galatea mutters a comment about moronic astrologists far too loudly and Draco shoots a glare at her. He may not be Jaspers’ number one fan, but that seemed to be taking it a bit too far.

“Ohhh, sorry,” he lowers his voice apologetically. He gives Draco a thumbs up. “Carry on.”

Draco waits until he’s seated next to Harry, who looks surprised by his willingness to sit so close to him amongst a sea of open seats. Jaspers doesn’t even look in his direction, his bright eyes focused directly on Draco. He sighs. 

“Apologies. Like I was saying what I am about to do is mimic the gravitational pull of a Full Moon in this room.” He takes a deep breath, carefully casting the same spell he always does.

They visibly tense and Draco can feel the pit of his stomach tie into knots after he casts it. Merlin, he hates this feeling. But it’s good, it’s real. Everyone in the room seems to be feeling it too, with the exception of Jaspers, who miraculously is immune to the spells’ effect. Either that or he was just unfairly good at dealing with anxiety. 

“As expected, the effects of unbalanced magic manifests in the quality of your spellwork. However, the gravitational pull of a Full Moon can further destabilize this balance, as it’s doing currently.” He takes a deep breath. “So, with that being said… cast a _Lumos._ ”

Draco tries his hardest not to dissolve into a fit of laughter when Galatea screams at the exploding light that comes from her wand. Parcel looks thirty years younger as he jumps out of his seat, Windsor looks as though he just had a heart attack and Draco hopes to Merlin that Crass didn’t just die on him. 

He waits until they’ve gotten their bearings before jumping back into the last bit of his presentation, explaining the magical theory and Full Moon’s intrinsic influence on magical cores and emotions. They probably don’t hear him, still too rattled to give their full attention, but he continues away. And then, because every good scientist knows that correlation does _not_ equal causation, he hands them each a document of his past Ministry approved experiments that had similar results as this one. 

He looks over and sees Harry smiling widely at him, pride pouring out of his expression.

Crass, who thankfully didn’t die, thanks him for his experiment with a mortified frown. She casts a _Muffliato_ for them to deliberate, effectively shutting him out of their conversation.

Sometimes it takes five minutes for them to deliberate. Sometimes it takes ten. 

This takes forty-five minutes. 

The _Muffliato_ they casted around them is strong and Draco twiddles his fingers anxiously as he waits. In the name of professionalism, he says put in his spot at the front of the room, not going over to Harry and gripping his hand as he waits for their decision. His hand grips onto his wand, because it’s real. His braid, because that’s real too. 

The room feels like it's filled with a thousand Full Moons as he waits.

“Malfoy.” Windsor's beard wiggles as he sniffs. Draco jumps at the sound of his voice. “For you.” A thick piece of paper is gripped in his hands. Heart in his throat, Draco steps forward, his body light as air as Windsor waves the parchment paper in front of his nose.

He takes it with careful fingers, opening up the envelope all rejections and approvals are sealed in. 

Inside, is a thick, yellow parchment letter. His rejection letter. 

“Oh.”

Galatea raises her sparse eyebrows. “Did you expect something different Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco’s nose stings. He won’t cry. He refuses to cry over some stupid rejection. He shakes his head. “No ma’am.”

She waves her hand. “Then you’re dismissed. We don’t have all day.”

Harry jumps out of his seat when he sees Draco’s distraught face, but he quickly shakes his head to calm him. They weren’t worth it. This wasn’t worth it.

Draco quickly gathers his things, shrinking the box so that it fits in his cloak pocket. He bows, glaring at them all, his rejection letter crumpled in his hand. “Thank you for your time.” 

He slams the door on his way out because he was never coming back here again.

“Those fucking arseholes!” Harry seethes next to him. “Even I could see that you deserved that approval.” Draco shrugs, walking quickly past the other witches and wizards in the department. Apparently everyone sees it except for them. 

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It _does!_ They just can’t reject you because they don’t like you.”

“They can and they did.”

They can do whatever they want. His pain was their entertainment. He’s pissed that he played the fool for them for a year. What joy they must have gotten from seeing him undeservingly fail every week. Passing out approvals in front of his face, taunting him for what he can’t have.

“Draco!”

Not now. He doesn’t think he has the emotional capacity to handle Jaspers right now.

“Draco!” Draco abruptly stops walking, rolling his neck and taking a deep breath. 

Jaspers is there when he turns, breathless and bright-eyed as he asks, “Do you want to know your future?”

Draco _wants_ to know when he’ll sod off so he can go home and cry in the shower. But what’s the point of spreading anymore negativity? This would be the last time he sees him anyway. He folds his arms over his chest, sighing, “Sure Jaspers. Give it a go.”

Jaspers, who has never had him willingly give in so easily, beams. He pulls out his tarot cards and taps them with the same spell he uses that Draco now knows it by heart. Draco lets him do his ritual of shuffling the cards for exactly a minute and spreading them in the air with his wand. He wonders if he doesn’t do this at least once a day if he’ll explode. 

He pulls the brightest glowing card out of the deck, nodding happily.

“ _The Sun._ That represents positive outcomes for your current hardships.” Jaspers grins, giving the Sun card another tap with his wand. “Oh excellent! Gemini’s are also going to conquer a feat that seems insignificant to others this week!” He frowns slightly, “But you’re probably going to take a short-cut to get there.” He flips the cards back into a neat deck. “Ah well, can’t win them all fairly I guess.”

“I suppose not,” Harry agrees.

Jaspers looks at him, tilting his head back as if noticing him standing there for the first time. “Oh are you Draco’s boyfriend?”

Draco blinks in surprise. Usually when people see Harry, they don’t immediately place him under the title as his boyfriend. Usually they shove Draco out of the way and gush over Harry Potter, _The Savior,_ being in their presence. 

Harry, who looks far too pleased to be introduced this way, takes Jaspers’ pudgy hand and gives it a hardy shake. “Yes, yes I am.” Draco rolls his eyes, unable to help from smiling softly as Harry continues to puff up with pride.

Jaspers looks at him, his head tilted to the side. “Draco, you’re gay?”

He narrows his eyes. Here it comes. “Yes, and I swear to Morgana if you say that I look it I’ll—”

“I was actually going to say that you look pansexual.” He gives him a goofy sort grin like he always does when he realizes the faults in his predictions. “Who would have known?”

“Erm…” He has no idea what to say to that. “Thank you?”

“No problem.”

With a raised brow, Draco asks, “Jaspers, why do you keep talking to me? Everyone else here ignores me.”

He cocks his head. “Why wouldn’t I? I always try to talk to the smartest person in the room. You’re a bloody genius Draco!” His smile falters slightly and he knocks at his temple a small groan. “Ah, I also don’t take social cues that well, you know, bloody Autism and all. You just gotta love it though right?”

 _Autism?_ Draco‘s eyes feel like they're about to pop out of his skull. Oh shite. “I… I’m so sorry for being so rude, I didn’t realize—”

Jaspers laughs. “It’s not anything you should apologize for mate, we’re all always growing. Besides, I have a feeling that you’re just naturally a bit grumpy.”

“You’re not wrong about that,” Harry adds, snorting into his chest. Draco’s still silently dying in shameful mortification to care about Harry’s comment.

“Oh! And before I forget, I wanted to give this to you.” Jaspers pulls out a crumpled piece of paper from where his tarot cards are stuffed, handing it to Draco. “I’ve told my uncle all about you and how weird it was that you keep getting rejected. He’s an astronomer like you and wanted to know if you’ll be willing to work as a research assistant for him in October.”

“What?!” Draco smooths out the paper, his eyes pouring over the loopy handwriting asking him for his assistance researching the Draconid Meteor Shower. “You have to be kidding me,” he whispers. Jace freaking Jaspers is offering him a job, when no one else is willing to give him a chance.

Jaspers raises a brow, frowning. “Um, no, why would I be kidding?”

Draco shakes his head, not having it in him to correct the misunderstanding. He can’t believe it. This feels too perfect, too good to happen to him on this day of all days. 

“You,” Jaspers pokes Harry in his chest, “What's your astrology sign?”

Harry’s mouth twists in amusement as he says, “Leo.”

Jaspers hums. “Leo…I’ll remember that.” He waves at Draco. “See you mate!”

He gives him a little wave, still too stunned to offer up a proper goodbye. “Why…?” Why him? Why now? Just… _why?_

“Would you look at that?” Harry murmurs, shaking Draco on his shoulder. “Every day offers unexpected miracles, huh?”

But when did Draco ever deserve a miracle? “What if he’s trying to set me up? What if he’s lying just to get back at me for all those times I snapped at him? What if his uncle hates—”

The shake Harry gives him rattles him to his core. His eyes feel like they’re rolling bludgers in his head when he’s done shaking him by the shoulders. “Fuck Potter, what the hell was that for?”

“Because you needed someone to shake some sense into you. This is a good thing. No one’s trying to sabotage you. Sometimes people are just _nice_ Draco, for no explainable reason other than because they want to be. I’m not letting you overthink yourself out of a good opportunity.” Despite his shorter height, Draco feels six inches tall at Harry’s logical dressing down. He’s very good at those, and he can only guess which curly-haired witch he learned this particular skill from. 

“Take the offer Draco. If you don’t like it, it’s not like you can’t back out. But give it a chance, for yourself.”

His neck tenses. “Will you shake me again if I say no?”

Harry seems to consider for a moment before nodding his head. “Probably. I quite like doing that. It’s a pretty effective way to shut you up.”

He hates this man almost as much as he loves him. 

“I feel awful. I didn’t realize that about him.” Draco slaps his head with his palm. He really needs to get better at learning about this mental health stuff, or at the very least, learn to be more mindful of others. “Be honest. Am I an arsehole?”

Harry removes his hand from his face gently. “No,” he grins, kissing his knuckles with far more care than he deserved, “You’re just a bit grumpy.”

* * *

Draco walks hand in hand with Scorpius into the school, feeling calmer than he has in years. The miracle of a Calming Draught was to thank for that. If he has to speak to over fifty squirming students and a dozen parents for the Career Day event the PTA organized, he wanted to ensure that he wouldn’t lose his shite and embarrass Scorpius before the year was out. 

Scorpius tugs on his shirt sleeve, squinting up at him from behind his black glasses. “You look loopy.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well I feel great.” He spots Harry fuming outside of the classroom where the event was to be held and pushes Scorpius along. “Go on, I’m going to speak with Harry first.”

Scorpius mutters something about no PDA being allowed on school property and Draco thumps him on the arm right as he enters the room.

“Why such the long face Potter?”

Harry’s scowl deepens. “This,” he points to his face, “is not a long face. _This_ is what I look like when I am angry and I am so bloody angry Draco I could—” His hands ball into fists and Draco calmly places his own on top of them. An opened door across from them slams shut on its own accord and Draco squeezes harder. Thank God it wasn’t the Summer Equinox yet.

“Harry, breathe.” Who would have known Draco would ever be the one telling Harry that. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”

Harry waits as the several parents pushing past them into the large room before letting it out. “Apparently, yesterday in Al’s history class, he pissed off the teacher, Mr. Burns. But it wasn’t malicious! You know how Al is, he just says things without thinking sometimes.”

Draco bites his lip to keep from laughing prematurely. Whatever Albus said must have been hilarious. He had to give it to him—the kid was supremely funny. “What did he say?”

Sighing, Harry scrubs his face. “Well Burns was talking about Lebanese people and Al very excitedly stated that his mother was a lesbian.” 

He can’t help it, Draco bursts out into laughter in the middle of the hallway. More parents filter in, looking at him curiously as he laughs away. “Oh, come on, there’s no harm in that!”

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, glowering. “There isn’t, but to Burns there is. He came up to me this morning and told me that he was promoting deviant behaviors with his comment. Worst of all, he took it out on Al and made him write a two page long paper on why the nature of his comment was unacceptable.”

Draco stops laughing, straightening up instantaneously. “What?” He hisses. “What exactly does this Mr. Burns bloke look like?”

“He’s like…a tall white guy I guess,” mutters Harry. 

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose. He wants better for Harry, he really does. “You're going to have to be more specific. _I’m_ a tall white guy.” He peeks into the room and from what he sees, there was no shortage of tall white blokes around. 

Harry points in the direction of a balding man older than his father with a hooked nose and stiff posture. “ _That_ tall white guy. From what Ana tells me, he was in the Royal Navy, so that’s part of why he’s such a hardarse about everything. She hates him too, everyone does.”

Well Draco has no idea what the hell a Royal Navy was, but he does know that if Ana Lellory hated him, then he did too.

“You’re not going to do anything, are you Draco?”

Draco huffs, still peering into the room. “Of course I am and I’m going to have Albus help me. Tomorrow is the last day of school for him, there’s no harm in having a little fun. Even I pranked my Charm School tutor on my last day.” He smiles. Those were good times. 

Harry sighs in his ear. “Fine. Just don’t do nothing crazy, alright? Al may not be coming back next year but I will.”

“Got it love.”

A hand grabs his elbow right before he can walk into the room. “You didn’t hear this from me, but a little doxy told me that Burns will be the first one to speak today. Something about laying down the ground rules before the presentation starts. I would strike then if I were you.” He coughs into his hand. “But again, you didn’t hear this from me.”

God he loves this man.

He makes his way to the front row of the room, moving carefully through a throng of squirming eleven years olds to where Albus and Scorpius were seated. 

“Albus,” he says softly. Albus raises his head from his desk and for the first time, Draco sees a dejected frown on his face so opposite to his usually smiling self. His drugged heart hurts at the sight. 

He props his head up with one hand. “Hey Mr. Malfoy,” he mutters. Beside him Scorpius sighs, looking as forlorn as his friend. “I guess my Dad told you huh?”

“He did,” Draco says gravelly. “A certain someone is going to have a very unsightly wardrobe malfunction in a few minutes and I’ll need your help to point it out to the rest of the room as loudly as you can. Do you think you can do that?”

Albus lifts his eyes, that wonderful hint of mischief returning to them. “Yeah, I think I can.”

He sits in the back of the room with Harry, smirking as he whispers to him his prank. 

“Are you okay? Your eyes look a little…I dunno, cloudy?” Harry’s fingers lightly tilts his head towards him. Burns stands in front of the room and starts his threatening warnings about talking or mischief during the presentation.

Draco scoffs, a bit too loudly to be convincing. A Calming Draught has a tendency to do that. He wonders if he took too much of it. Probably. “Last time I checked my eyes were grey, so of course you would think that. Now hush, I need to concentrate.” For some reason, Draco has a distinct feeling that Harry would be pissed if he found out what he did. A Healer would certainly blow a fit if they found out.

Good thing he won’t ever have to know.

The more this bloke talks, the more Draco sees Snape in him. None of the children can quite look him in the eye. His cold gaze focuses on Albus far longer than Draco is comfortable with and he feels a faint buzzing sensation in his chest when Albus lowers his head in defeat.

He begins to softly mouth the incantation under his breath, his unblinking stare focused directly on Burns. Careful not to make the change too noticeable, he goes as slow as he can bear, stopping only when his mission is complete. 

Draco laughs under his breath. Someone should tell Burns that Hufflepuff yellow was not his color.

Gasping, Albus raises his hand, shaking it in the air to get his teacher’s attention. Burns keeps talking, glaring at him and too distracted stewing in his anger to notice some of the other students giggling madly at him. 

He keeps his hand raised, looking as though he might burst if he wasn’t called on in the next minute. 

“Albus Potter,” Burns growls. “What is your issue?”

Albus sighs in relief from finally being called on. “Mr. Burns, your fly is down!”

His white face turns an awful shade of red when he looks down and sees his unzipped trousers. Parents snicker into their elbows and two girls in the back of the classroom nearly fall out of their seats with laughter.

“You little—”

Ana leaps up in front of him and claps her hands together loudly. “And with that, let’s kick it off with Mrs. Yeon!”

She has to drag Burns away from Albus as Areum wheels up to the front of the room and begins to talk about her work as a professional boxing coach. Though Draco has no idea what boxing was, it sounded brutal enough to make Kacia squirm in her seat.

Boot comes up several parents later and Draco can tell his work as a Knight Bus driver is far less exciting when he fabricates it as being a school bus driver. Several kids yawn as he stumbles to answer the questions without revealing anything magical.

Then it’s him, and time seems to stop.

In a parallel universe where he didn’t take the Calming Draught, Draco sees himself walk up to the classroom on shaking legs, immediately assaulted by fifty pairs of uninterested, apathetic eyes. He may get out a sentence or two, before he stumbles on a word; suddenly after one sharp intake of breath, he’s on his knees in front of everyone, panicking and hyperventilating and proving Harry right for the hundredth time. 

He should stop thinking about this. He should, lest he find himself having a panic attack because of his constant fear of having a panic attack. It’s happened before, he doesn’t see why it wouldn’t happen again.

Merlin, and Scorpius. He’s never seen him have an attack—that he knows off. He’ll probably be scared half to death and in front of everyone in his year nonetheless. 

“Draco?”

He blinks at the sound of Ana’s voice.

He’s in front of the room, somehow making it without tripping over the cramped desk legs and bookbags on the floor. Scorpius pushes his glasses on his nose, smiling and giving him a thumbs up as encouragement. 

Just five minutes. He’s taken the Calming Draught and he’ll be fine. He’ll get through this, just like everything else.

Draco clears his throat of any residual nervousness lingering there. “Hullo, my name is Draco Malfoy and I—”

“Is your name really a constellion?” Terry Boot’s kid asks enthusiastically.

“Remember to raise your hand TJ,” Harry chides gently before Draco can respond. Well then, he guesses they’re jumping straight into questions with him. Draco goes with it.

“ _Constellation_ ,” Draco corrects. “And it absolutely is DJ.” Boot hisses, _‘TJ’_ from the back of the room and Draco gives him a haughty little smirk in response. Like he fucking cared. “My name is one of the 88 official constellations in our galaxy.” His breath hitches and he clings onto his hair behind his back, tugging sharply at the strands to remind him to focus. “It means dragon and is the name of the dragon constellation. My son Scorpius’ name is also a constellation.”

Several girls _'awww’_ , batting their eyelashes in Scorpius’ direction. Unfortunately for them, he was too busy watching Albus’ eyes widen in wonder to notice. Salazar, Draco is raising a heartbreaker.

A little boy raises his hand. “How much do you make?”

“Er…” Draco’s fingers twindle with the ends of his hair. “50 thousand…” He looks at Harry. _‘Pounds,’_ he mouths to him, smirking slightly at his hang up. “Pounds.”

A chorus of ‘whoa’s’ and ‘ooo’s’ float around the room so he guesses he said the right thing.

He lets them ask as many questions they can think of and even manages to convince several students that aliens are in fact real. The last question allowed is asked by a girl who raises her hand in the same studious manner as a young Hermione Granger, only she has her hair plaited in meticulously neat Dutch braids. She asks in a clear voice, “Why did you choose to study astronomy Mr. Malfoy?”

The Calming Draught was wearing off, he can feel it from the way his heart was beating a bit too fast to be comfortable in his chest, but all he has to do is answer this one last question. Just one. He can do this. 

“Er…I chose to study astronomy because…” _Think Draco, don’t make these kids have an existential crisis._

Harry nods encouragingly at him and he tries to answer only to him. 

“Because the universe feels so limitless, so unattainable. But astronomy isn’t.” He looks at Scorpius who smiles broadly at him, holding two thumbs up against the frames of his glasses. For a moment, Draco wonders if he knows that he’s three seconds away from losing his shite before remembering not to be pulled into repetitive thoughts of anything else but finishing answering this last question. He can do this. “In reality it’s not just the study of space, it’s the study of life. We’re only stardust, a product of the universe. I think of astronomy as just a reflection of humans, and sometimes, when the sun is right and the earth is tilted perfectly, a reflection of my son too.”

The children clap loudly as he finishes with Albus and Scorpius whooping and flat out ignoring Burns snarling for them to hush. 

He hardly listens to the rest of the parents as they share their job descriptions. He’s done it. He’s spoken to a large crowd without freaking out. Maybe this was overkill, but Draco thinks he deserves a nice, long shag for today. He smiles at Harry, who gives him a tight-lipped smile in return. 

The kids give a half-hearted applause when Kacia finishes her twenty minute long, one-sided discussion about her cupcake shop and Draco sees some parents jostle awake when Ana finally pulls her from the front of the classroom and thanks all of the parents for their participation. The kids exchange exhausted looks with each other when Kacia jumps up and tells them that she brought cupcakes for them all. 

Draco has one against his will. It’s disgusting.

The fresh air never felt so good as he walked down the steps of the school building, Harry on his heels. 

“Draco,” Harry grabs his arm before he can make it down the steps. He presses his lips close to his face and for a moment, Draco thinks he might just kiss him on the cheek. He leans in, waiting to be rewarded for today, for not losing his shite in front of such a large crowd. Warm breath tickles his ear as Harry says, “A Calming Draught is not a replacement for therapy and a potion.” 

He snatches his hand away with a terrifying speed. Something awful that he wouldn’t be able to take back is on the tip of his tongue, burning to be said. He holds it. For Harry’s sake and his. 

It’s a rare, cloudless and sunny day in England—people’s smiles are brighter, the Draco constellation will be especially visible in two weeks, and Harry Potter wants to talk about things that are not real. “I’m not discussing this anymore Potter,” he spits. “Not now, not ever. So stop bringing it up.”

Any sane man would have dropped it, but the man who claws at his sanity isn’t exactly sane himself. “Something’s going to click one day, Draco. You’ll see. Just know I’ll be there when it does.”

Harry’s looming over him because of his position on the white staircase and it drives Draco crazy to be looked down on like he’s his _superior_ or something. He goes up a step so that they’re on the same level. “You think you know every fucking thing—”

“Dad!” Scorpius yells across from the school yard, waving to him with Albus in tow. “You coming?” The finger pointed in Harry’s chest retracts. Right, they were supposed to meet Ron, Hermione, and their kids for lunch. Not have pointless arguments in front of their sons’ school.

“This isn’t over.”

“It never started.”

Draco whips his hair in his face, stomping down the steps with Harry right on his tail. He can hear his heavy footsteps following his. “Potter, I swear to Merlin if you don’t fuck off!”

Harry grabs his arm, whipping him around before Draco can shove him away. His scowling, full lips land on his, kissing him with as much vitriol as he did snarking at him. Glasses digging into his skin, he kisses him until he can’t breathe and Draco does the same, not wanting to be the first to lose. 

It’s Harry who pulls away first, nostrils flaring. A bit of his old childhood competitiveness simmers in delight at Harry being the first to give in.

“Just because I’m pissed at you doesn’t mean I don’t love you, arsehole.”

Draco snarls, “Good because I love you too!”

“Good!”

“Great!”

A scandalized gasp captures their attention. Next to them, Kacia removes her sunglasses, watching with wide eyes and an open, pink mouth while her bratty son squirms in her grip. 

“You…you two are…?” She squeaks, covering her trembling mouth with her hand. “You actually are a shift-lifter then?”

Draco yanks Harry by the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer to him. “Yes, and he’s the biggest sodding bisexual poofter in all of England you crazy bint!”

She pales. “I’m just gonna…” 

“No more than you, you flaming queer,” Harry spits back, his chest fluttering. 

Draco looks at him, the vicious expression on his face so far removed from his ridiculous insult. His breath hitches in his throat in that wonderfully good way and he has to put his hands on his knees to keep from toppling over from laughter. 

He wheezes, “Flaming… _queer?_ ” Harry’s mouth untwists from his snarl and it’s only seconds later until he’s just as doubled over with laughter as Draco is. 

“It was,” Harry gasps, “the only thing I could think of.”

Draco wipes the tears from his eyes. “Clearly.” He sniffs, brushing his thumbs under his glasses to wipe away the several tears that have fallen down Harry’s taunt cheeks. “Gosh, I’m sorry. I went too far.”

Harry sighs, still smiling. “Me too. I don’t want to push you to do anything you don’t want to do.” He lets out a tiny huff in amusement. “That's a thought. Like I could force you to do anything. You’re Draco fucking Malfoy.” He grins approvingly. “But that doesn’t mean that I’m going to stop talking about your anxiety,” Draco rolls his eyes and groans at the word, “So you’re either going to have to listen to me or brush it off.”

Compromises. 

“You can talk about it as much as you want, but I’ll brush every word you say off. And I’ll _still_ love you.” He holds out his hand. “Deal?”

Harry takes his hand, but instead of shaking it, he kisses his palm and closes his fingers over it, securing his kiss like an amulet. “Deal.”

* * *

The next three months are something short of a fantasy. 

James returns home, no more friendlier than when he left, but willing to greet Harry and him in the mornings and teach Scorpius some basic Quidditch skills on his broom. Ginny says it’s a start; Draco thinks it’s a miracle. 

Draco turns another year older, earning another reason to complain about being old.

He and Scorpius rarely return home during those long summer weeks. September 1st was arriving faster than anyone expected and they both agreed that they’ll rather spend their last few weeks with the Potters than in their cold, empty home. 

Harry agrees too because before he even has a chance to bring this up, both Draco and Scorpius each have a dresser of their own.

Harry turns another year older and he spends it bragging about how young he still is.

August arrives and the weekends are spent in Diagon Alley, slowly accumulating the necessary items needed for Albus and Scorpius. Hermione and Ron tag along several times, bringing their oldest Rose along with them. 

They stop when Ron overhears his daughter gushing over _how cute_ Scorpius is. 

Two weeks before the first of September, Draco owled a letter to Astoria in the dead of night, unable to rest when he remembered that they would be standing on the platform of 9 ¾ in less than a moon cycle. The first time a child leaves for Hogwarts is special, and if she was actually serious about mending her relationship with Scorpius, he won’t deny Astoria the joy of seeing him off. 

She owls back two days later, promising to meet at the spot Draco specified no later than 10:30. He takes her word for it, shoving the letter away in his bottom desk drawer. 

It's September 1st, and before he knows it, Scorpius’ trunk and Prince, his new, very female owl, are sitting in Harry’s living room as they wait for Albus to gather last minute items and stuff them away in his already full trunk. James leaves by himself, claiming to be tired of waiting for Albus to get his junk together and Floos himself to the platform before Ginny can stop him. 

She’s raging of course, but Draco thinks he may have been onto something. They have to return to Harry’s house three times over after Albus claims that he forgot another something—his toothbrush, his favorite family photo, his wand. Ginny threatens to send a Howler during his first breakfast at school if he screams about needing another thing from the house. 

They have to go to Draco’s house next because Albus forgot to say goodbye to Princess.

“Draco, I will give you Albus and one hundred galleons for Scorpius,” Ginny groans as they enter the platform, looking at Scorpius’ neatly packed trunk and school items enviously. 

He looks at Scorpius, who was currently balancing his wand in between his upper lip and nose for the entertainment of Prince and Albus. 

He groans. “Deal.”

The station is packed, another year’s worth of dirt and grime staining the floor as hundreds of witches and wizards say their goodbyes to their children. They’re in the exact spot Draco had mentioned in his letter two weeks ago to Astoria.

Draco glances at his watch. The bold print read 10:30 exactly. He looks around.

No Astoria.

Still clinging onto hope, Draco insists that they wait a bit longer. After all, everyone runs a little late sometimes right? And it was probably harder for her seeing that she’s coming all the way from Paris. She’ll come, he knows she will.

Ginny, Harry, their children, and Scorpius busy themselves by taking pictures while Draco desperately scans the platform. 10:40. No Astoria. Harry’s eyes darken apologetically at him in between their picture taking. With each minute he waits, the more his eyes sting and his fingers twitch. 

10:50 rolls around. She’s still nowhere to be found.

His heart falls into his feet and he hides it as best as he can given the circumstances. Of course. Of course he should have expected this, how foolish of him to expect anything other than disappointment with Astoria. She played him with her pretty words and sorrowful apologizes, only for Scorpius to be let down unknowingly again. Both Ginny and Harry give him somber looks and he knows Harry is just itching to apologize for something that is completely out of his control.

Nothing in life works out so neatly. He supposes that this was the one imbalance in the universe that may never be equalized. 

While other parents are giving their children last minute hugs and advice for the new term, Draco’s looking anxiously around the station for a woman who wasn’t here. There’s a faint tug on his sleeve and Draco looks down, giving Scorpius a watery smile only to receive a soft shake of his son’s head in return. He knows. He’s always been too clever for his own. 

“It’s okay Dad.”

A tear rolls down his cheek that he doesn’t bother to hide. “How much do you know?”

“Enough to know that she’s not coming.”

Draco’s breath hitches and he bends down so that he can be at eye level with his son. He digs in his pocket, pulling out the green stuff dragon. He can hardly see, his vision a blur from the accumulating tears in his eyes. 

All he needed from her was to _show up_. And she couldn’t even do that.

“I…” his voice cracks pathetically as he enlarges the green dragon with a tap of his trembling wand. “I brought you this.” The downy fuzz on the dragon is splotchy and wet from his tears. “I don’t know, I just thought…”

Scorpius puts a steady hand over his shaking ones. Even his hands have grown bigger since last year. He wants to hold onto them, grip them, and take him some place where he can’t be hurt by Astoria or circumstance or anyone else that has the potential to harm him. 

“Why don’t you keep her Dad,” Scorpius suggests softly. “I’m sure Princess will love to play with her.”

Draco scrubs his face free of his tears. “Right,” he sniffs. “Right.”

He clutches the dragon to his chest. Princess will have to deal. This dragon would be laying next to him and Harry tonight. And probably for many nights to come.

He rubs a thumb over Scorpius’ cheek. “Don’t let _anyone_ mispronounce your name.”

Scorpius sucks in a breath and if he didn't know better, Draco would say he wasn’t the only one trying not to break out into sobs. “I won’t.” The train choos, the conductor belting a thunderous ‘ _five minutes!’_ into the air. He throws his arms around Draco’s neck and squeezes. “I love you Dad.”

He can’t get the words out fast enough. “I love you, I love you so much Scorpius.” 

They stay like this, clinging onto one another when the train choos again and a barrage of young witches and wizards roll past them with their trunks and owls in hand.

“Scorp!” Albus calls, grinning like a madman. He places Batman, his new black, white-faced owl, on his trunk. “You ready?”

Draco, who wants nothing more than to cling onto his son at the question, lets go. This time, he had to let go. Scorpius gives him a proud smile. “Yeah,” he says, “I’m ready.”

The second he stands up, Albus is racing full speed into Draco, making him grunt in pain from the impact of his tiny body demolishing him. “I’ll miss you bunches Mr. Malfoy! You better sing for me when I come home!” He squeezes his midsection so hard Draco wonders if he would ever be able to eat again.

“I will. I’ll miss you too Albus,” he says, genuinely meaning it. He hugs the rowdy boy for all but five seconds before he’s off again, waving goodbye to everyone, even strangers, and racing around to grab his stuff. Merlin, he’s really going to miss this crazy kid.

“Aww they grow up so fast, don’t they?” Ginny cooes, leaping up behind them and squeezing both Harry and Draco in her strong arms. Draco has a feeling that Ginny Weasley could kill a man if prompted. He’s suddenly terrified of the man Albus will become. 

“Air,” Harry gasps.

“Oops.” 

They both breathe a sigh of relief when she lets go. He won’t admit it, but her optimism was much needed right now. 

They watch Albus grab Scorpius’ hand and begin to race as fast as they could onto the train, their trunks and owls rolling sluggishly behind them. 

Despite the tears still falling freely down his face, a wry little smile forms on Draco’s lips. His fingers clutch a little tighter into the stuffed dragon Scorpius left with him. He seems so happy, so bright as they run together and Draco has a feeling that he just _may_ know why.

“Harry?”

“Hm?”

Draco’s grin widens and he can tell Harry was thinking the same thing. “Is it just me, or do they seem a little…well, you know.” He raises his brows expectantly.

Harry’s booming laughter stops a few people short around them. He inches his fingers around Draco’s waist, pulling him closer. “Oh Draco, those two are _completely_ smitten for each other.”

Ginny snorts. “Should I get Mum to stitch a jumper for Al’s little boyfriend?” 

Draco’s about to joke that after Molly Weasley met his son, he would be surprised he doesn’t already have a jumper waiting for him when someone calls Scorpius’ name behind them. All four of them turn to see a breathless Astoria running towards them on the platform. 

“Scorpius? Draco, where’s Scorpius?!”

Brown hair askew and skin flushed, she looks nothing like the prim and stoic woman Draco once knew. Not even like the person he saw those months ago in France. This woman is alive and desperate as she calls out to her school bound child. 

“He’s already on board,” Harry answers gruffly. His body tenses next to him. Draco’s tongue feels like a dead flobberworm— thick and heavy in his mouth. 

Ginny elbows him in the side, raising her red brows in question and looking ready to pounce on Astoria in front of everyone. The strange glint in her eyes tells him if he doesn’t call her down soon, she’ll take matters into her own hands. He gives an imperceptible shake of his head and her metaphorical hackles reluctantly lowers in response.

With wild eyes, she searches the train station, as if trying to mentally seek out Scorpius. She’s off again, looking through each train cart window and calling out Scorpius’ name. 

_“Two minutes!”_ Screeches the train conductor. Draco can hear the engine revving up below the earth and he knows it won’t be long until the train is off for good.

She pushes past the throng of leaving parents and siblings, her feet kicking up some of the centuries old dirt on the platform. Draco tenses. She’s not going to make it. The train is going to leave and Scorpius will be gone, never knowing that his mother was calling for him. 

“Scorpius!”

“Mum?!” 

She makes it.

Scorpius’ head pokes out of the stained window, his eyes widening simultaneously with his smile. Their smiles match in a way Draco’s never noticed before, each identical when placed side by side.

She says something he can’t hear, something that makes Scorpius laugh and reach his hand out for hers. 

The conductor yells out _‘one minute left!’_ and the sound of the horn blasting in the station hovel vibrates around them, raising the wisps of hair from his messily done braid. Draco watches as she captures his hand, slipping a large metal object onto his finger and parting their connected embrace with a kiss on his knuckles. 

“You okay?” Harry asks in his ear. 

Draco nods, though his body feels cold all over. This wasn’t about him. This was about Scorpius. And if Scorpius was okay, then he would learn to be as well. 

They all wave goodbye as the train begins to move, and Ginny tuts in annoyance when Albus sticks his body way too far out of the window to wave to them. Draco has the distinct feeling that they will be receiving a lot of written notes from McGonagall. 

That bittersweet feeling is lost when Astoria is standing in front of him again and all that is left in its wake is unrequited bitterness. 

Close up, Draco can see how awful she looks. Bleary, dark eyes shrouded in dark circles. He was married to this woman for ten years, but yet Draco’s never seen her with her hair and nails undone, with her lips cracked as she tries to summon up the courage to speak to him. He doesn’t recognize the gaunt woman before him. He doesn't know if he wants to either. 

“Draco.”

He can’t be bitter. He _won’t_ be bitter. 

Nodding respectfully, he greets her. “Astoria.”

“I…” she swallows, looking nervously at the four pairs of eyes staring at her, waiting for her to make the wrong move or to say the wrong thing. Then she looks only at Draco, licking her dry lips. “I hope you don’t mind. I gave him the signet. You never came back for it at our— at the house.”

The Malfoy ring. In his haste to leave France he had forgotten all about it until now. It was such an important amulet passed down from generation to generation, that he can’t believe he had forgotten about it. He can just see it now, the metal ring that had been lying on his bedside table for months, collecting dust as he cultivated a life here with Scorpius and Harry, forgetting entirely about it till this very moment.

He’s at a loss for words. She remembered. She remembered something so important to him and his heritage. She remembered, for _Scorpius._

Throat tight, he chokes out, “Thank you.”

She nods. Tucking a strand of mused hair behind her ear, she shuffles awkwardly by them. “I’ll just um…” a slim finger points the opposite direction and she leaves, head bowed. 

Harry’s hand is encouragingly stroking the back of his neck, playing with the shorter hairs at the nape. 

“Astoria, wait!”

She turns, her entire being lifting as she takes a hesitant breath. “Yes, Draco?”

The hand on his neck stops, the owner sucking in an anxious breath in his ear.

He wants to say something to her. Something, like he sees her, he understands, he’s so sorry for not realizing before and blaming her for something that was out of her control. 

He lifts his chin. “I’m here, okay? I’m here if you… if you need anything.” He knows that he can’t fix her, but he doesn’t have to push her away either. He meant what he had said in France. He wants to share custody one day, and more than anything, he doesn’t want to see her suffer.

If he’s being honest, something about the dark, bruising circles under her eyes and the directionless air about her chills him to the bone. That could be him. If he keeps pushing away everyone’s advice and his options, he would be doomed to dig himself out a hole just like she was.

She gives him a watery smile. “Thank you. I’ll see you soon.” 

With that, she disappears into the crowd of leaving family members, leaving behind Draco and his new family.

Ginny lets out a loud breath. “Well that was… something.” She turns to him. “How do you feel? Do I still need to run and beat her arse for you?”

“No, I—”

“Harry! Draco!” 

Three rushing figures race towards them, though the tallest one has to stop and place his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Ron and Hermione greet them with nervous eyes and strained faces, their youngest in tow.

They’re both wearing their amulets. 

“Draco,” Hermione says, incredibly less breathless than her husband. He can hear the worry laced in her tone. “Was that her?”

“Does… Godric, I’m old,” Ron heaves. Draco cocks his head to the side worryingly. Wasn’t this man an Auror? He stands up straight and fans his red face several times. “Does Ginny need to beat her arse for you Malfoy?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “No one needs to beat anyone’s arse. But uh, thanks for the sentiment I guess. And yes, that was Astoria, Hermione.”

“She looked tired,” Hermione acknowledges thoughtfully. “Do you think she’s okay?”

That’s a question that he can’t answer. But he does know one thing: Astoria Greengrass has been depressed for as long as he has been anxious. 

“We’ll get there.” His head was pounding from today and he wanted nothing more than to curl up with Harry in front of the fireplace. Intrusive thoughts invade his mind and his fingers begin to shake. _Something real_ , Hermione told him. So he grips onto Harry’s hand because he’s real, wonderfully so. He doesn’t miss Hermione’s nod of approval. 

Harry squeezes back. They’ll get there.

* * *

He’s free to spend the nights as he chooses now. With Scorpius and Albus gone, Harry’s bedroom becomes theirs in the span of a week. It’s better this way. Draco’s learned that he really can’t be in an empty home by himself, because he doesn’t think he can deal with this new development in his life alone.

Yet, like a fool, he attempts to do so anyway the first night, admittingly too prideful for his own good. Despite Harry's insistence that Draco stay the night, he stayed locked away in his bedroom, riding out two panic attacks by himself and a long crying fit Draco vowed he would take to his grave before sharing with another living soul. 

The second night was a bit more bearable. After he pushed down his pride, Draco realized that there was value in being held while you slept. At least if those arms holding you are Harry Potter’s. Still, it doesn’t help his restlessness throughout the night. Draco finds that he’s very good at organizing things in the dead of night. Harry’s teacup collection is arranged in a beautifully neat order by the time he wakes up in the morning. 

The seventh night, Harry corners him just as he's rolling out of the bed to rearrange the bookshelf in the study. With bleary eyes and a voice rough from sleep he asked, “What are you avoiding Draco?”

Nightmares. Waking and sleeping. He’s no stranger to them of course, but nightmares aren’t usually accompanied by panic attacks as well. 

Yet, he laughed instead, because in this rare instance the fantasy was far better than the reality. Shook his hand from Harry’s grip and said, “Seeing your horrendous organizational patterns every day.” 

Dawn comes and Harry’s bookshelf is worthy of Madam Pince’s approval. 

He’s driving himself spare worrying about Scorpius, Albus, Astoria, even Harry when he’s not at arm’s reach from him. He feels a lot like a caged dog, pacing around in his crate to keep from going mad. Trying to find something that isn’t there.

The last week of September, a letter from Jaspers’ uncle comes in about the research position studying the Draconid Meteor Shower. Above his scrawled signature is a note telling Draco to reply with his decision no later than October 9th. 

So naturally, he stuffs the letter away in a dresser, letting it collect dust as he worries about more important things. Like whether Scorpius was getting along with his professors. Each time he tries to write a letter in response to the research offer, it only overwhelms him terribly. 

This morning was awful. Breakfast was spent with him worrying himself to death about Albus, who had been given detention already for speaking too loudly in class. Harry simply laughed it off, stating that he doesn’t know how in the hell he had managed to get himself sorted into Slytherin with his tactlessness. Draco doesn’t find it as humorous, nervous that his professors may hold a grudge against him like his history teacher had. 

Harry had set his plate in front of him, brushed his fingers through his hair, and ordered him to take a bloody nap.

“So you’re going to treat me like a child, Potter?”

“Only if you persist in acting like one Malfoy.” 

He does take that nap afterwards. Harry was right, he did need it.

It’s only when he wakes up late that evening, brushing the hair out of his eyes when he sees it in the bathroom mirror.

Dark circles that adorn his pale face. 

He tilts his head. They’re still there, at every angle. 

He doesn’t like Harry’s mirror. It talks, unlike his Muggle one on Shooter’s Hill. In a voice too smug for an inanimate object it says, _“So you finally see those horrendous marks.”_

Oh, he sees it. He tilts his head to the right and he sees Astoria too. 

Harry warned him that something will click, that he’ll see what everyone’s been saying. Only, he never thought that he'd see what he’s been avoiding in his own reflection. 

Draco climbs down the stairs that aren’t really his own, but are beginning to feel like his. With soft footfalls, he finds Harry curled on the couch, reading a Muggle book Pansy had gifted him from her collection.

“I’ll do it.”

Harry sets down his book and fixes his glasses. “Oh? And what is that, exactly?”

His skin feels like it's being pricked by a thousand tiny needles wielding themselves into his pores. Harry was right, he does deserve better than what he’s giving himself. “I’ll go. To the Mind Healer again.” He takes a breath, his nails clawing into his folded arms. “And I’ll consider taking the potions.”

Harry’s mouth drops open in shock at Draco’s easy acceptance. He shifts uncomfortably on a floor that wasn’t really his either, needing for him to speak.

“Well…say something?”

Harry just stands up and yanks him into a hug. “I’m proud of you.”

“I feel weak,” he admits, burying his face in the crook of Harry’s neck where no one could ever judge him for being so vulnerable.

“All I see is strength.” 

He’s being a sappy Hufflepuff again and Draco’s grateful that he has someone who was willing to be sappy with him, who wasn’t afraid of saying the things he couldn’t. 

This was his reality. Trial and errors, of not listening and trying to say it like it is. He tried to escape it by stuffing it away in the back of a dusty cabinet in France and plugging his ears to everyone’s advice, but as he wraps himself around Harry’s body, he thinks he can accept it now.

He grips onto Harry, clenching his teeth to force the nervous wave of tears from staining his shirt. “You better not give up if those potions make me depressed—”

“I won’t.”

“Or angry—”

“Nope.”

“Or fucking crazy—”

“Not a chance.”

Draco tugs at his shirt, forcing their eyes to meet. “I am so bloody serious Harry.” His gut churned at the thought of the results of this decision pushing Harry away.

Harry cups his face with his hands, running his thumbs down his wet cheekbones. “I’m sorry to inform you, but you are stuck with me Draco Malfoy.” White teeth appear from his full grin, “So you can be as depressed or angry or crazy as you want because I’m not going anywhere.”

* * *

That night in their bedroom, the last day of September is hot and sweetly scented and heavy from the incoming thunderstorm. Harry kisses each of the pale scars on his chest, no longer avoiding them. Draco tells him to always check the cabinets for hidden potions in the future, no longer avoiding that either.

They were always going to get here. Here, lost in each other, still growing and warm and so terrifyingly, desperately in love. 

His stars were always aligned. All he needed was a shift in perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are and will always be loved and appreciated!


	11. Epilogue: Rose Nebula

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a very short, fluffy epilogue to make up for all that angst.

“Harry, can you just give me one hint?”

“No. Now hush.”

Draco rolls his eyes, supremely annoyed that he was being subjected to a surprise. He hates surprises. They make no sense and he’s already told Harry that he was too old for them. At 32 years old, Draco Malfoy was officially too old for a lot of things. Surprises counted in that list.

But he’s not too old to pound his foot into the ground when he wasn’t getting his way. Or tug on Harry’s hand until he finally gives in.

“Potter.”

“Potter.”

_“Potter!”_

Harry yanks on his hand, nearly throwing him off balance. “Bloody hell, what do you want Draco?!”

He worms his fingers in between Harry’s and brings them close to his cheek, batting his lashes pleadingly. “Just one hint? Pretty please with a blowjob on top?”

Had they not been in the middle of Muggle London, Draco would have probably gotten hexed in half for being such a pain and for screwing with Muggle sayings like he was. “No hints,” Harry says firmly. “We’re here anyway.”

Draco scowls at the giant dome Harry takes them to. A crowd of Muggles was streaming in and out of the building with large smiles on their faces though Draco can’t figure out why. “So… my surprise for taking the potions is… a dome?”

Harry stiffens beside him. “Erm, what?” He laughs nervously and runs a hand through his hair. “Who says that this is for going to therapy and the potions? Pfft, come on, please it’s not—”

As subtle as a brick wall. “Come off it Harry, I’m not daft. We both know this is my gift for not being a stubborn arse anymore. It’s actually kind of sweet that you think I don’t know this. But I don’t see why a dome is a suitable gift.” He squints his eyes at the name of the white building etched in block letters as they walk closer. “Or a… planetarium?”

Harry smirks. “You just wait. You’ll be eating your words once you’re inside.”

He’ll let Harry indulge him in as much weird Muggle shite as he pleases, but Draco still doesn’t see how a dome is exciting in any way, shape, or form. He resigns himself to pretend to act excited because he’s absolutely positive nothing in that building is that interesting.

* * *

“Oh my god,” Draco nearly drools at the sight before him.

Harry smiles, poking his arm playfully. “Like it?”

Stars, everywhere. Massive models of planets hung from the ceiling and Draco wonders how Muggles could have hung them in the first place without magic.

“Oh my god,” he repeats. He wraps his hands in his hair, too shocked to say anything else. Muggles were amazing and this was just further proof of that. “I think I’m going to pass out.” Or hyperventilate. But like, the good type of hyperventilating. The type that was needed every once in a while. Azubuike, his Mind Healer, and Sachi and Sagitta’s father would absolutely agree with him.

Harry loops his arm underneath his and pulls him up. “You’re so dramatic,” he laughs. “Come on, you haven’t even seen the best part.”

_“There’s a better part?!”_

He doesn’t answer, sweeping him around the building and letting him gawk at the vivid pictures of constellations and nebulae at his leisure. Stars, galaxies, planets. Some of them that he’s spent years researching and some that he hadn’t even known existed.

Harry places the back of his hand over his laughing mouth. “Draco, are you crying?”

Draco shoves him away. “No.”

Yes. A little bit. But anyone would cry seeing such beautiful pictures of the Rose Nebula projected onto the ceiling. He quickly wipes his eyes before Harry can make a fuss about it. Bloody hell, this man and his surprises always turn him into a fucking crier.

This was also kind of turning him on, but he’ll be damned if he admits that part.

Harry lets him drag him around, listening to Draco geek out about every single star or galaxy they pass, and doing his best not to look as confused as Draco knew he was whenever he spouted random facts. For Harry’s sake, Draco begrudgingly steers them away from the section dedicated to black holes because existential crises were a bitch, and this place was full of them.

Draco stands over the graphic of the Andromeda galaxy, _ooo_ -ing and _aww_ -ing over it like an excited first year. Next to him, a little boy does the same, their expressions mimicking each other as they watch the glittering stars swirl around on the screen.

 _“Cool,”_ the boy whispers in awe next to him.

_“Wicked.”_

“Good grief, you’re a mess Draco. I can’t take you anywhere,” Harry laughs when Draco scurries over to another graphic showing an exploding supernova. He captures Draco’s wrist in his hand and looks at his black watch. “Shite, but we really have to go.”

Draco stiffens. _Go?_ No, he lived here now, he’s not leaving until he’s dead. “Um, excuse me, what the hell do you mean go?”

Harry winks at him. “You’ll see.”

He decides to take his word for it for once, because regardless of how much he pretends to hate them, Harry was really excellent at surprises.

He lets him guide them along to a massive, circular room with rows of seats. A crowd of what has to be at least two hundred people are already in the room by the time they find their seats.

Usually, his anxiety would spike being around such a large crowd of loud, moving people. He waits, tense in his seat for his heart to speed up or his hands to shake.

Nothing.

He sits back, wondering whether those potions or Harry’s surprise was truly the better gift.

“You okay?” Harry asks in his ear. He still does this every time they’re around a crowd, out of habit.

He takes a deep breath, even though he doesn’t need to but because everything was, for once in his adult life, fine. “I’m…good, actually.” Draco takes another deep breath because he really can’t believe it. He smiles at Harry. “Really good.”

Harry wraps an arm around his neck, pulling him close to kiss him on the cheek. “Good, because I want you to see this. They do specials every month on a certain weird space thing and guess what this month’s special is on?”

He doesn’t have to guess for long, because the screen comes to life above them, and amongst the sea of twinkling stars on the ceiling, there’s one constellation shining just a bit brighter than the rest of the stars.

_“Draco."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another completely self-indulgent fic finished!
> 
> Comments and kudos are and will always be appreciated and loved!


End file.
